Mercury in Retrograde
by justcourbeau
Summary: Hermione wakes up in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries with no recollection of what happened to her. Everything she thinks is present is actually past, and her life has been turned on its ear. [Geomione]
1. Chapter 1

Bright, bubbling happiness.

Tinkling laughter.

Tinkling glass.

The reverberation of a shockwave tinkling down the notches of her spine.

Blackness.

* * *

The aching in her head was a fact she knew to be true from the very second she started the gentle drift back into consciousness. It felt like she was floating idly on the water in a little dingy, close enough to shore that she could hear people on the beach except the fog was too thick to see through.

Gradually it cleared but the throbbing in her temple and the soreness behind her eyes didn't.

Breathing made her ache in weird places like between her shoulder blades and behind her knees.

Her eyelids were still cemented shut, and trying to pry them open was taking a considerable effort.

Where was she?

It was warm. It smelled clean. It felt soft.

A blurry sliver of light appeared as she managed to crack her eyes for a moment before they closed again.

Maybe something simpler.

Toes.

She wiggled her toes jerkily, and felt a flood of relief at the simple accomplishment.

Her ears felt like she was underwater, sound muffled and strobing in and out, clarity somewhat like muddy water.

Concentrating too hard on trying to understand her surroundings immediately made her head throb painfully, a flash of light playing behind her eyelids like a sharp lightning bolt.

* * *

Things were clearer, her head felt like the mud had been rinsed from the inside of her cranium and cracking her eyes didn't feel quite so much like she was rubbing her entire face in her childhood sandbox.

The blinking started slow and gradual, and after a few minutes the fuzzy outlines of her surroundings started to come into focus. The room was light and airy, and to her left was Ron's blurry shock of ginger hair down near her hand and to her right was a dark blob of hair which she knew instinctively to be Harry's.

Hermione swallowed and grimaced at the gritty feeling on her tongue and the unclean feeling of her teeth. She had brushed and flossed just that morning.

"Ha-" she started before her throat caught, her voice rasping and catching. "Harry?"

Her voice was weak and faint, reminding her of trying to scream into a strong wind, the air carrying a voice away and erasing its imprint on the world around it in a single gust.

The blob shifted and Hermione could tell the moment Harry realized she was awake. Even foggy and unclear, she could see his seeker reflexes automatically engage.

"Hermione!" he whispered sharply. "Are you alright? Are you okay? I'll go get a Healer – you're alright? Do you feel okay?"

"My head…" Her hand twitched as she tried to lift it and place her palm on her temple like a stuttering start from an old car that had sat idly at the curb for too long.

"Hold on," Harry whispered back, the weight of his hand on her shin disappearing as he rose and moved in the direction of the door. Hermione saw his blurry outline merge with Ron's for a moment and the ginger head jerked awake.

The movement was enough to make her close her eyes, her vision floating and drifting at the sudden movements.

"Hermione!" Ron whispered, hoarse.

"Hi," she scratched out.

Harry returned a moment later from the hall with a figure in official looking robes, crisp and professional even to Hermione's adjusting eyes.

"Ms. Granger, hello. How do you feel?"

"My head feels like the… the Whomping Willow had a grand old time." She shut her eyes again to try and blur away some of the ache.

"I'll be right back with something for that, and we can assess from there."

Soles on linoleum, a door latch catching.

"Where am I?" she whispered, and felt the boys shift around her briefly, realizing for the first time that Ron was holding her hand in his, the warmth from him penetrating her skin and flesh and bones and bringing tears to her eyes.

Where was she, how did she get here and why did everything hurt? Why did her joints feel stiff and frozen, why did her muscles ache and tug and why did her ligaments feel like they were about to snap, and –

"St. Mungo's," Harry responded, closer. She felt his hand settle on her other wrist and a warm thumb smoothed over her skin, wiping away the salt tracks of her tears.

Hermione inhaled, letting the oxygen permeate her blood and circulate, serving to calm her nervous system as she felt panic start to creep into her mind.

None of this made sense.

"Here we are," the Healer returned, the tinkling of glass vials accompanying him.

 _Tinkling laughter._

 _Tinkling glass._

That didn't make sense either.

"Thank you," she tossed back the vials that were pressed gently into her palm one at a time.

"This one is for your head, it'll help clear it and dull the ache. This one is for the soreness and tightness," he explained as he handed them to her.

Immediately, Hermione felt her head clear. It was like window wipers on the windshield of her father's old car, clearing away the torrential downpour obscuring her vision. The next potions helped seem warmth back into her extremities and made them respond less jerkily to her trying to move them. The pains melted away and the room came back into focus and Hermione blinked the fog away.

The Healer was young, just a few years older than the trio and he looked genuinely pleased to see her eyes focus on him and grinned.

"Hello, there. Do you know where you are?" he asked delicately.

"St. Mungo's," Hermione responded, refraining from bombarding the man with questions she wanted answers to _that moment_.

"Lovely," he nodded. "These questions might seem odd but please answer them anyhow, okay?"

Hermione nodded, squeezing Ron's hand and receiving a tightening of his grip in return.

"Alright, do you know your name?"

"Hermione Granger," she stated with a huff of breath.

"And do you recall your birthdate?"

"September 19th, 1979."

 _Patience_.

"And the year?"

"1998."

The room fell deadly silent as both boys on either side of her held their breath and Hermione's heart rate spiked.

"Oh, no, sorry," she shook her head in bashful confusion and she felt them relax instantly. "1999," she finished with a smile, but…

"Don't be sorry," the Healer smiled. "I don't want you to panic, Ms. Granger, everything is alright. But it's actually 2003. These lapses are quite common in cases like yours…"

Hermione's heart stopped.

There was a vacuum somewhere, sucking all the oxygen from the room and creating a void through which reason and sound could not be heard. The beating pounding _rushing_ of her heart was loud in her ears like the rhythm of a taut drum. She could feel her body pulling air into and pushing air out of her lungs but she was woozy, dizzy, spinning anyhow and –

"It's what? It can't be – _2003_? What do you mean two thous – no, you… you must have it wrong, it's _1999_ ," Hermione interrupted the Healer's voice, words forming on his lips that she was no longer absorbing. "It's 1999."

She was sure.

She was about to graduate Hogwarts, she was in the middle of her revision schedules for her NEWTs, this was preposterous. Her Charms Practical was the day after next and –

How long had she been here? _Had she missed the exam entirely?_

"Ms. Granger, it's quite alright -"

"It's not _alright_ , how long have I been here? Harry, why am I in the hospital? Have I missed than many exams?" her voice was taking on the shrill tone, high enough that she could feel the tightness in the back of her throat as it constricted tightly, worrisomely.

"Hermione -" Ron spoke up, squeezing her hand. Harry was frozen in his chair at her side and his lips were opening and closing soundlessly.

"What's going on? Ron, why am I _here_?" she turned to her other friend before gasping and recoiling slightly. "I'm so sorry George, I thought you were Ron."

"It's – It's okay. Shall I get him for you?"

George's face was drawn, his skin pale. The bags under his eyes were sallow and he looked like he hadn't slept in a week, easily.

"Please, I – I… What's going on?" Hermione turned back to Harry who was staring at her in disbelief. "Harry, why are you looking at me like that?"

"Ms. Granger," the Healer spoke up louder. "You were in an unfortunate accident and it seems as though your memory has not come back to you just yet."

Hermione stared at him silently, at a loss.

"I… What sort of accident? Where was I?" Hermione demanded.

"In Diagon Alley, at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes," the Healer informed her.

"What was I doing there?!"

"Hermione, calm down – this will all make sense soon," George suggested, reaching for and squeezing her hand again. His voice was tight in his throat and he looked pained.

"Why was I at your shop? What did you _do_ to me?" Hermione gasped out. As she was saying it, she knew it was hardly fair but –

Nothing made sense and –

Things always made sense to her –

She couldn't find reason in these new facts –

"I asked you to marry me," George choked out, his voice hitching and catching and shredding him on the way out. "And you don't remember."

* * *

 **;)**

 **Leave a review, lovelies.**


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione had been in a coma for four days by the time she had woken up.

Four days, gone. And the four years previous to them, also gone.

She spent another week in St. Mungo's under observation while they ran diagnostic spell after diagnostic spell and gave her every potion that might be able to help with retrograde amnesia. Magic had the ability to mend, fix or otherwise improve many medical conditions far beyond that of muggle medicine but brains –

Brains were a funny thing.

Tampering with the millions of tiny connections in the average human brain as it fired electrical impulses that controlled thoughts, senses and movement was ill-advised at the best of times. That didn't even take into consideration the section of the brain that took care of automatic actions like breathing and blinking.

So seven days and no recalled moments later Hermione was released into the care of Aurors Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. They brought her back to her flat where she sunk onto the cushions of a squishy green couch in stunned silence.

"D'you, erm, want some tea?" Ron asked.

Harry and Ron were standing in the middle of her living room with completely different looks on their faces. Ron looked utterly lost and his floundering had provided him with a distraction his mother had ingrained in him.

"Yes, please," Hermione responded vacantly.

The emptiness in her voice was one she couldn't seem to shake.

Her whole life felt empty now, and panicked, like she was adrift at sea. Paddling and paddling until she had no energy left and couldn't help but let herself sink.

"Hey," Harry bobbed his head and moved to sit on the small coffeetable in front of her, knees jutting out on either side of her own. "I know you're lost right now, Hermione, but it will get better, I know it will."

"You _don't_ know that, Harry," Hermione whispered, afraid her voice would crack if she used it. "You heard the Healer, I might _never_ get my -"

"First of all, yeah you _might_ never get your memory back but what about all the good things? You're okay now, you have us, you have Crooks, you have the rest of your life to make up for those lost memories. Here," Harry leaned over and grabbed the box of tissues that was sitting on a sidetable by a lamp and handed it to her.

The Hermione she remembered hardly ever cried but it seemed that this _new_ Hermione barely needed to be prodded for her waterline to start shimmering.

" _Four years_ , Harry. Four! And I don't understand how I got here _at all_!" she squeaked. "I don't recognize myself. I don't know who I _am_."

Harry inhaled slowly and squeezed her shoulders in his warm hands, tipping his forehead closer and closer to hers until their heads rested against one another. His eyes searched hers, flitting back and forth across her face. Hermione let a strangled tiny sob escape before leaning forward and pressing her face into Harry's shoulder. He held her until her trembling shoulders stilled, seconds or minutes later, she couldn't be sure.

When she pulled her warm face free of his embrace, she brushed back the errant hairs that had been dislodged from her braid and placed her cool fingers on her cheeks. Her face was puffy and damp.

"Better?" Harry's eyebrows rose minutely.

"Mhm," she sniffled. "I'll be right back."

She rose and started in the direction of what looked like the hall before she slowed to a stop, and half-turned back.

"The bathroom is…?" she asked hesitantly.

Harry's eyes had followed her short journey and he barked out a laugh, cutting the solemnness and shattering it to a million pieces when he threw his head back.

"Through the door at the end, on the left."

She just wanted to get to her destination. Hermione hardly looked at anything of her apartment, passing through the hall quickly and closing the bathroom door behind her. With her back pressed onto it, she sunk down to the floor and took a few calming breaths before opening her eyes again.

There was a sink to her right with sparkling exposed pipes beneath it, and a washcloth hanging over the basin. The walls were cream and the shower curtain was gold and –

There was a pressing, building pain in her hip and Hermione wiggled down to the floor. Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew her wand and lobbed it at the bathtub with a choking, grating grunt. Red sparks exploded and skipped over the porcelain and onto the tiled floor as it tinked and rolled away under the curve of the tub.

 _How was she supposed to live here?_ It felt like a stranger's house.

How was she supposed to live this Hermione's life?

She was supposed to be finishing up her last year at Hogwarts with Ginny and Luna, not living this foreign life four years in the future in a new millennium with her own business to run and a _fiancée_.

Her heart had broken to pieces at the look on George's face when she had asked him to please get Ron for her, and she could have probably forged her own horcrux with the pain he had shown when she had handed the glittering ring from her left hand back to him.

"I can't keep this, George," she had explained. "I don't know what happened and I'm sorry I said what I did about – about – when I blamed you."

"It's yours, Hermione," his voice had cracked as he took a step back when she had reached her closed hand out to give it to him. "Keep it."

It was burning a hole in her back pocket.

And nothing about this life made sense to her. She couldn't see her own train of thought through the decisions she had obviously made after her Hogwarts graduation.

Ginny explained she'd passed her NEWTs with flying colours and immediately gone into work for the Ministry, helping reform policies through her position in the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She'd moved briefly to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement before retiring and buying a tiny bookshop in Hogsmeade and moving into the flat above it.

 _Bookshop_ wasn't a real shocker but –

Hermione was hardly content with sitting around and letting other people reform the country. She had opinions and ideas and the motivation to see them all realized! What had lead her leave it all behind and sequester herself in the tiny wizarding village outside Hogwarts?

"You don't need to come, Hermione, don't feel like you have to," Harry said, sipping his tea.

"No one will be mad if you just want to stay home. We could cancel," Ron suggested, and Harry nodded. "Harry and I could come over and… watch the tele or something."

"No, no," she shook her head.

After splashing water on her face and forcing herself to get out of the bathroom and walk back to the sitting room, Hermione had found the boys waiting with tea and biscuits.

"Don't cancel the party on my account, please. You deserve a birthday party, Harry," she pressed.

"Are you sure? It's no problem," Harry countered.

"No, I'll be really ticked with you if you don't go, alright?" she gave him a small smile, which he returned.

When they went to leave an hour later, Ron pressed a thick envelope into her hand.

"George asked me to give you this."

* * *

 **WOAH.**

 **Can you say overwhelming enthusiasm? Because I can.**

 **I didn't have anything else written when I posted the first chapter but I was feeling the feels so here we are.**

 **Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who read, who reviewed, who connected on tumblr. I wouldn't be writing if it weren't for your professions of love and shared appreciation.**

 **More soon!**


	3. Chapter 3

Seventh Year at Hogwarts had been a much more laidback affair for Hermione Granger.

For one thing, no one had tried to kill her best friends, and that small detail had taken load off her shoulders. Secondly, the boys had elected not to return, thereby relieving Hermione of any responsibility she felt to nag. Harry and Ron could never ever be replaced, but Ginny and Luna became the other two sides to a new triangle that had taken plenty of time to get used to.

In light of the recent events, Headmistress McGonagall had declared it open season on dormitory selection and let the students themselves chose the group they would be roommates with, in hopes that interhouse unity would come a bit more naturally to them from then on.

At this announcement, Hermione had thought for sure that the populace of Hogwarts would go insane and take down the rest of the still-mending castle in a blaze of flames and sheer stubbornness. In actual fact, it had been quite a civilized affair. Though students were still sorted into their official houses by the Sorting Hat based on personal values and strengths, the unspoken Great Hall House Table System had already been abolished. Students at the end of the previous year had already been mingling and mixing while trying to heal both physical and emotional wounds and over the course of the last few weeks at school, it had become commonplace to co-habitate with other houses.

That was how Hermione, Ginny, Hannah Abbott and Daphne Greengrass found themselves in the topmost dorm of Ravenclaw Tower for their seventh year with Luna Lovegood. The five girls had grown close in the aftermath of the Second Wizarding War but it wasn't until there was a knock at Hermione's door on the morning of Harry's birthday that she realized _how_ close.

"Daphne?" Hermione opened the door, still in her pyjamas, bare feet soft and warm against the white-painted floorboards.

"Hi, darling," the blonde gave her a small smile and tipped her head to the side. "I know everything must have you completely frazzled – and I know how you _hate_ being frazzled – but do you think I could come in? I brought croissants."

The Slytherin was obviously holding back the urge to walk in of her own accord, her commanding presence warring with her obvious concern for Hermione. One glance at the bag Daphne was holding had her frowning.

"Did you go _all_ the way to France for those?" she squeaked, stepping back and allowing her friend into the apartment. The cream trench coat she wore hung open to reveal a tailored dress of the finest quality Hermione had ever seen and she resisted the urge to stare at the woman.

"Well, yes. What else was I supposed to do? I hardly thought you were up for a jaunt to Hévin's and so I brought the _salon de thé_ à toi, n'est-ce pas?" she giggled at her joke and Hermione rolled her eyes.

She set her purse down on the small dining table and disappeared quickly into the kitchen, the sounds emerging making it quite clear that Daphne knew her way around Hermione's house better than she did at the moment. Hermione hugged her arms around herself tightly before sitting on the couch. Daphne emerged a moment later, a tray of chocolate drizzled croissants floating in front of her as she carried two steaming mugs of tea on a tea service.

"Is that mine?" Hermione asked and leaned forward as Daphne set it down and went to remove her coat.

"Yes, it's yours. I bought it for you and you never use it so we're using it," she laughed.

"No wonder," Hermione said, touching her fingertips to the sterling filigree handle of the cream decanter. "It's very ostentatious."

"No dear, it's _beautiful_ , we've gone through this," Daphne settled on the chair close by. "Now why don't you tell me what's going on now that you're back at home?"

Silence fell between them but Daphne didn't blink. Instead she crossed her legs and twirled a lock of hair around her index finger and observed Hermione with a shrewd eye. Never once did she give the impression she was about to speak again until Hermione had said at least something.

Hermione sighed.

"Daph, I can't remember – remember that you bought that for me, or how I felt about it before, or the conversation we had about it being beautiful, not ostentatious. That's how I am," Hermione finished with a sigh, looking up at the other woman unblinkingly.

Daphne hadn't really changed much compared to the image Hermione was holding in her memory of Daphne in seventh year. Her hair was still a peculiar shade of blonde with a touch of strawberry red and her eyes were the very same shape, hooded with a bright brown iris. Her nose was a bit longer than Astoria's was, but it suited her longer oval face more than it would suit her younger sister's rounder one. Daphne sat as elegantly as ever - if one could even _sit_ elegantly – with class and good taste still an aura about her.

"I mean, I haven't even been able to look myself in the mirror, or – or look at this apartment, I just – I feel so out of place, Daph. I feel like I'm in a strangers house living a stranger's life -"

"Well, you aren't really living it are you?" she asked, blunt.

" _Daph_ , it's been _one_ day since I got home, what do you think I should be doing?" Hermione asked, dropping her head into her hands.

Hermione's breathing was heavy and she continued to stare through the gaps in her fingers at the floorboards, willing herself not to cry again, tracing the pattern of the painted slats with her eyes – herringbone, maybe? – until Daphne finally moved.

"Get up," she commanded. "Come on."

Her heels clicked away in the direction of the hall and Hermione begrudgingly looked up at her retreating back. Pulling herself up, she followed Daphne back into the bathroom and the other woman placed her in front of the mirror.

"Look, there," she pointed, looking at the reflection of Hermione over her shoulder. "What do you see?"

Hermione looked over herself, seeing her emotions play over her features like an outsider.

"I don't know," she responded.

"What a load of shit. Get it together, Granger," Daphne held her stony expression for a moment before giving her a tiny smile.

"I…" Hermione sighed and went back to really look.

Her skin was still fair and she leaned closer to the glass to inspect the freckles over the bridge of her nose. They were exactly as she remembered them. Her eyes were the same, the slope of her nose identical, and her teeth just as perfect. The curves of her shoulders, the shadow of her collarbones, and the hollow of her throat, all the same. Her face was a little less round perhaps, but that was the only difference she could see.

"I see me," she said.

"Precisely," Daphne nodded pointedly.

"But it's not just that! It's not about looks," Hermione turned quickly to look at her friend.

"Then what's bugging you? You have to tell me, as I have no idea what it's like to lose my memory, darling."

"It's about – it's about _this_ ," Hermione gestured around. "It's about not recognizing all of this. It's about not understanding how I _got_ here! Things are _so_ different than I thought they would be when we were in school, planning our futures and figuring out what we wanted to do."

"You're panicking because things aren't what you _expected_? I can see how that would be a bit off-putting but darling, _nothing_ turns out the way you think it will. _Nothing_. Just look at you! You never thought you'd lose your memory but here you are having lost it!" she laughed. "Nothing happens when or how or _with who_ you think it will. Life just isn't like that."

"I never thought I'd end up engaged to _George Weasley_ ," Hermione slumped onto the edge of the bathtub. "How did that even -"

"Engaged? Like _engaged_ engaged?" Daphne interrupted her with wide eyes.

"Yeah, I – how come you didn't know?" Hermione shook her head, confused.

"My question exactly," the blonde huffed and raced from the bathroom. Hermione jumped up and followed her down the hall and out into the sitting room again. Daphne had already flooed someone when she came around the corner.

"You asked her to _marry_ you, and you didn't even _tell_ me? Don't you think you should have asked me for her hand in _marriage_?" There was a pause as Daphne listened. "No, you twat. Will you please come through?" Another pause. "Well, you're going to need to talk eventually. Now's a good time!"

"Do you usually talk to George like that? Seems a bit informal," Hermione frowned as Daphne pulled her head out of the fire and brushed soot off her shoulder.

"Considering I'm -"

A great _whoosh_ interrupted her and in a blaze of green flame, George was stepping out into Hermione's living room.

"How was I supposed to know Perce wouldn't say anything? I assumed you knew _obviously_ ," George directed at Daphne.

"Well, I know that _now_ ," Daphne rolled her eyes.

"Hi, Hermione," George cast a brief glance in her direction.

"Percy?" Hermione questioned.

"No," George shook his head. "I'm _George_. You can't have forgotten _that_."

"No, you said Percy – what does he have to do with anything?"

There was a beat of silence before Daphne and George burst into laughter, Daphne somewhat more enthusiastically.

"It's complicated," Daphne hedged.

" _How_ complicated?" Hermione asked.

"We're married."

Daphne broke into laughter again at the look on Hermione's face.

* * *

 **HI HAPPY SUNDAY BABES  
**

 **Wish me luck for finals as it's my last nine days of class and projects and send reviews to keep me strong.**


	4. Chapter 4

George and Daphne laughed as Hermione's mouth remained open for a few more seconds at Daphne's announcement.

"You're a _Weasley_? You married _Percy_? How did that even happen?" Hermione shook her head in bewilderment, memories of Daphne's supposed allergy to the library, her penchant for fine and expensive _everything_ , and her hatred of everything to do with what Hermione associated with Percy; statistics, the Ministry, following rules. The only thing Daphne had ever been precise about was her wardrobe, her hairstyling charms and her posture.

"Don't be outrageous, I kept my own name," Daphne tutted, as if that should have been Hermione's first assumption. "But yes we're married, it's a long story dear, I think we should discuss it at a later date. Right now, you two need to talk and then it's Harry's party -"

"Do you really think this is the time, Daph -" Hermione gave her an exasperated look but her friend was unaffected.

"Yes, this is the time, Hermione. You've been with him for years and he just proposed to you and evidently you'd accepted so no matter how confusing you're finding things and how crazy it all seems please – trust yourself. Trust that even though circumstances over the last four years have changed, and that you as a person have changed, _trust_ that you were still _you_ and that you've made the decisions you did for a reason," Daphne pressed, her hand raising to point in George's direction. "You were _happy_ with him."

Hermione's breath hitched and she bit her upper lip. Happy?

"That's… That's like asking me to have _blind faith_." Tears sprung to Hermione's eyes yet again and she stomped her foot in frustration, wiping the sleeve of her sweater over her cheek roughly. "I don't do blind faith, I do facts and figures and long answer essay questions, I don't -"

"In all fairness, a marriage proposal is a lot like asking for blind faith as well, and you were ecstatic with that," Daphne dropped bluntly. "And now my darlings, I'm going to leave you to it. I'll see you both later at Harry's party."

Daphne departed with as much _joie be vivre_ as she'd had upon entry, leaving a lingering trail of Chanel perfume and the sound of her heels on the stairs outside.

Silence permeated every corner of the apartment, making the sound of running water upstairs more evident. The two occupants shifted, and Hermione tried to think of something to say.

"I… Thank you for coming," she said quietly.

George was looking at his loosely laced hands and taking shallow breaths, his chest hardly rising and falling. When standing, he was just as tall as she'd remembered, and just as broad in the shoulders. His hair was not quite as ginger as Ron's, it leaned a touch more brown, like Ginny's. He tilted his head up to look at her standing in the middle of the room and at a loss, and Hermione got a clear view of his face. His eyes had a strange sort of dullness about them, but otherwise he seemed fine. Lightly tanned skin, hair just long enough to mussed up. The scruff he was sporting both softened him around the edges and toughened him up and Hermione didn't understand that at all.

"Well, we should probably talk," George nodded.

"I haven't opened the envelope yet," Hermione supplied, hoping to defer some questions she might have had coming. She hadn't been able to get herself to open the little package Ron had passed on to her since last night.

"You should probably go get it; it's important," George stated, offering no more explanation.

"Right," Hermione felt odd walking back to her bedroom and picking it up, the weight of it terrifying in her palm. George hadn't followed and the place was quiet again as she flicked a nail under the seal and tipped it over onto the bedspread.

There was a vial of clear liquid, tightly sealed, and a folded up note.

Frowning, Hermione inspected the vial closely but there was no label. Veritaserum? Draught of Living Death? What else was clear…

Unfolding the note she realized another was folding inside, the outer one containing what she assumed was George's scribble.

' _Hermione, please take this, just to be sure. I know the Healers checked you over because of the explosion but I need to know. –George'_

What? George thought something was wrong with her that the Healers might have missed?

Picking up the second square of paper she unfolded it and turned right side up, her eyes freezing on the header, heart pounding heavily in her chest.

"George!" she screeched, thumping out of the bedroom and down the hall. "Do you really think this is something you just _send_ along with Ron? What if he'd looked?"

"Sorry, I… Just didn't think you'd want to hear from me," George gave a small shrug.

"Is it even possible?" she shook the paper at him nervously, her heart still beating wildly in her chest.

"Well, there was this one night after a Puddlemere game and it was Oliver's birthday and they'd won and things were quite… celebratory?" George offered delicately.

"And you're saying I could be _pregnant_?" Hermione's voice almost gave out on her and she dropped herself into a nearby chair. "Oh my god, how perfectly timed."

"Well, neither of us could remember if we'd done the charm but that's happened before, right, and nothing's ever come of it but…" George trailed off, looking back at his hands, his ears pink.

"But _what_?" Hermione pressed.

"But you hadn't been feeling so well before the accident. Not terrible, just under the weather but you hardly ever get sick and I don't even think it had occurred to you yet but I wanted to make sure because… Well, because I love you. Even if things are crazy right now, I still love you."

"And," Hermione rasped, eyes watering again, "What if I am pregnant? What will I do? Oh my god I'm going to be alone in an apartment I don't know with a _baby_ to take care of -"

"We don't _know_ you're pregnant, and besides – you wouldn't be alone. Can we just figure it out one step at a time, yeah? You've been giving me enough worry over the past week, so maybe just take it down a notch," George sighed and took a deep slow breath.

Hermione's heart was thundering in her chest, her mind working a mile a minute but still confused because she didn't have any memories to think over to reassure herself she wasn't pregnant. She had no context to bring anything enlightening to the situation at hand other than bursting into tears at the drop of a hat. Which, wasn't that something pregnant women did because of hormones?

"Oh god," she whispered, scrambling with the paper again to read the instructions. "One drop of blood and a shake."

Hermione cast her eyes around for something she could use to get a drop of blood from her finger and George frowned.

"Use your wand," he grinned, shaking his head at her.

"It's under the – nevermind, will you do it please?" Hermione held out her hand to him and he shuffled closer, pulling his own wand out of his pocket. Her hand shook minutely as he took it in his own, warm and large and tender. George placed it at the tip of her index finger and Hermione inhaled through her teeth as he made the tiniest of cuts there. She quickly retracted from his hold and unsealed the vial, looking up at him briefly before squeezing a drop of bright red blood into the vial of liquid.

George looked nervous, and Hermione's heart fluttered again. She couldn't imagine what he was going through. Daphne said they'd been together for _years_. So his girlfriend had lost all memory of his time with her, the moments and habits and inside jokes and fights and cuddles and – the everything that a couple shared together, that hopefully made them fall more and more in love with each other as time passed. Hermione had been wiped clean of that.

To her he was just George, Ron's brother who had blown off school before he'd finished it, started a business that had been doing quite well at her last update, and sent Ginny loads of letters while she was finishing her seventh year at Hogwarts. He defied rules, and came up with ingenious plans and always had a quick line on the edge of his tongue.

To _him_ , she was all those years wrapped up into one, his girlfriend, he loved her. He loved her so much he wanted her to _marry_ him and she'd said yes before it had all been ripped away.

As she looked closer, shaking the vial and holding it sealed with her finger, she observed George closer and what she found made her heart crack. She could almost see the ripped and ragged edges of him hanging off his body, the parts where _she_ had been ripped from him. The dull eyes, the downward stare, the distant letter. He was keeping a distance for _her_ sake, not his. He _loved_ her still and he missed her and all she had done was panic about her memory and not thought what this whole thing had to _him_ because he hadn't been injured like she had.

Hermione lunged at him, locking her arms around his neck and ignoring his brief moment of stiffness before he pulled her closer and tugged her into his lap.

"I'm so sorry," she squeaked out, her throat tightening in preparation to cry yet again.

" _I'm_ so sorry," George responded, low and gruff and more personal and intimate than she ever remembered an exchange between the two of them being, her spine tingling. He shuffled her closer and wrapped an arm around her back as she continued to wiggle the vial around, waiting for the answer to the burning question.

"What's the result indicators?" she asked, and George reached for the slip of paper before coming back to her.

"Green is positive and black is negative," George answered. "But those Healers were doing all sorts of tests. They were bound to find it if it was true, right?"

"I hope so," Hermione breathed and they both held their next breath as she stopped shaking the vial and held in up to their faces, the liquid frothy but settling.

Their eyes widened when the milky colour became evident.

* * *

 **WELL WHAT THE HECK MELISSA WHY DO YOU LEAVE US HERE?  
**

 **Well dear reader I'll tell you. I set up a poll on my profile to see what you guys think. Do you want her to be pregnant, or not?**

 **I started this with a very vague idea of where I wanted it to go, so we shall see where we end up. If an overwhelming amount of you want that then I'll see what I can make work.**

 **So go vote!**

 **And review too please. :)**


	5. Chapter 5

They both sighed and Hermione felt the tight grip of anxiety loosen from around her chest.

The vial was an inky opaque black indicating the negative. She was _not_ pregnant.

Life was already chaotic and unpredictable as it was; she couldn't remember anything from around four years ago up until waking up in St. Mungo's last week. She hardly needed to add to the shock of finding out that not only was she a small bookshop owner and not the Ministry employee she had been aiming for, but that she was also engaged to George Weasley. Expecting a baby on top of that would have made her emotions a whole lot more complicated and difficult to untangle.

"Are you alright?" Hermione looked up at George from her position in his lap.

"Yeah, I… I thought they would have spotted it at St. Mungo's if you had been – I'm just – It's good to see for sure," he nodded. "I wouldn't want you to be dealing with _that_ without… without me by your side. That would be…"

"Right," Hermione inhaled deeply. George's arm was still at her back and he was pleasantly warm, the smell of fresh shower and something deeper had enveloped her and she held the breath for a moment, resisting the urge to take another large breath. Slowly, delicately, she climbed off and settled just to the side.

Hermione and Daphne hadn't even had the chance to have the tea and croissants that she had laid out earlier; it seemed like that had been ages ago, with Daphne asking to be let in and carrying the bag all the way from Paris because it was _Daphne_ , but in reality it had only been perhaps twenty minutes or half an hour.

"Are you hungry?" Hermione asked George, nodding at the tea service, and he laughed lightly.

"Things were a little chaotic this morning, hmm? Ah, well, that tends to happen when Daphne's around," he reached for a croissant.

The pair sat at opposite ends of the green sofa for seconds, minutes – maybe _hours_. Crookshanks appeared when Hermione was licking the chocolate smudges off her fingertips and about to reach for a mug of tea. He hopped up slowly, much slower than she remembered him ever being, and brushed against her knee before kneading George's thigh with is front paws.

"'Lo, Beast," the ginger man scratched behind the half-kneazles ears familiarly and Hermione paused to watch the exchange. Since third year, Hermione had learned to put quite a bit of trust into how Crookshanks treated people.

George offered a small flake of pastry to the similar-haired feline and Hermione watched as Crooks retrieved it from the end of George's finger and made a production of licking his lips after devouring it. When her familiar finally settled, he curled up so that his back leant into George's leg comfortably.

Hermione didn't know what to say. Not about Crookshanks, not about the situation, not about anything. What could she possibly fill the silence with?

"I'm sure Harry's already told you, but no one will be upset if you stay home tonight. A lot of people will be at the Burrow and it's completely understandable if you -"

"I'll – I'll be there," Hermione interjected. "It's not going to do me any good to put it off forever."

"Not forever," George agreed. "But everyone at once?"

"I'll be fine," Hermione voiced, her heart thumping heavily in her chest.

 _Would she_?

"Hmm," George gave her the subtle side eye.

It had to happen some time. A thought occurred to Hermione suddenly.

"Where is my shop? I haven't seen it yet and I've been wondering…"

"It's downstairs," George laughed. "You, uhm, you bought the building actually, when you decided to leave the Ministry. So all of this is yours."

"I bought a _building_?"

"Yeah, you were so concerned it was _ostentatious_ – that's one of your very favourite words, by the way – but once you got over telling people you'd actually outright bought the place, you calmed down a bit."

"So it's… It's _downstairs_?" Hermione asked, trying her hardest to ignore the way George's face softened around the edges for a moment, his freckles shifting just a fraction.

Several moments later, he was showing her the way down the wooden steps just outside her front door, shiny and polished and smooth from age and wear. The summer sun was streaming through the front bay window and the air was hot and stifling in the July heat, catching in Hermione's throat at the slightest inhale. The brushing of George's jeans sounded _wider_ somehow before the clicking of a heavy lock grabbed her attention. As George pulled the door open, a chime jingled from somewhere above; the metallic tinkling started up by the front door and trickled all the way to the back and out of sight.

Considering the apartment she had been passively observing over the last day, the layout of the shop was quite similar – or perhaps the better assessment was the proportions were the same. The store front was small and allowed for the front door and somewhat squished looking bay windows on either side.

Hermione followed George hesitantly through the front door, down the two small stone steps and out into the world outside her apartment.

With a shock, she realized that she had never asked where _home_ was for this Hermione. With a perplexed look, gazed up and down the familiar High Street of Hogsmeade. The top turrets of Ravenclaw and the North Tower could be seen over the treetops and rugged terrain nearby, Hogwarts peeking over at them from a distance. The tiny wizarding village spread out around her and she looked back.

The storefront was painted black, the windows gleaming in the sunlight. Gold lettering denoted the name.

 _Hunter and Hare, Books Fine and Rare_.

There was an illustration of a hare, possibly from a children's book, on one front window in the same gold as the shop name above and Hermione stared at it in awe.

This was _hers_?

"Remus has been running interference for the last week, answering mail and filling owl orders as best he can," George sidestepped Hermione with his hands in his pockets as she reached out to touch the deep golden shimmer of the hare on the window. Just behind the glass was a dark leather chair, deep and comfortable-looking.

"He has?"

There was a distant noise and George looked over her shoulder down the hill.

" _My!_ "

Hermione turned to see a small human barrelling up the street toward them, hair a perfect match to the shade of cerulean above their heads.

"My!" he shouted again, trainers thumping hard against the cobblestone.

"He's calling you, by the way; you're his favourite," George commented and Hermione's eyebrows pulled together for a moment before she saw Remus Lupin following the little boy up the hill and realized –

" _Teddy_?"

"Auntie Mi!" the little boy launched himself at her midsection, fearless and completely confident that she would catch and hold him.

* * *

 **Hi!**

 **Hopefully you're all enjoying lovely holidays right now, and a little fanfiction update was just what you were hoping for.**

 **I ended up sending out 143 Christmas cards to tumblr followers this year, which was totally amazing and really exciting and brought me a lot of joy. If you didn't get the chance to participate this year, look out for it next year because I'm certain I will be doing the same thing again. :)**

 **I hope to get at least one more chapter of this out for the holidays, with plenty of new details and tidbits in it for you who are really interested to find out Hermione's story with her as she deals with this upheaval in her life.**

 **Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!**

 **Leave a review.**

 **Cheers!**


	6. Chapter 6

The little boy's arms clutched at her, cinching around her hips as he burrowed his face into her side. Hermione instinctively ran her fingers through his shockingly blue hair before looking back up at Remus approaching at a much slower pace.

"You're so _big_!" Hermione muttered, more to herself than the small metamorphmagus who had attached himself to her.

"You say that all the time," he pulled away and gazed back up at her. Hermione found herself looking at an exact replica of her own brown irises and remained speechless. "I'm just as big as I was last -"

"Hey little man! How's it hanging?" George stepped in, distracting the… five year old? Five year old. Hermione gave her head a shake, her eyes following after him as he skipped over to George and was hauled up and onto the ginger's shoulders.

"Sorry, Hermione. He doesn't quite grasp that you can't remember some things."

Turning back, Hermione was pleasantly surprised to see that Remus Lupin looked the best she had ever seen him. His skin was lightly tanned and his scars were quite evident, however he had an air about him that indicated he had never cared less about them. His hair was sandier than she remembered, and less blonde, and he looked slightly out of place to her without a cardigan on.

"Remus!"

"Hello," he gave her a kind smile. "There was no stopping him, unfortunately."

"Oh, it's – it's fine," Hermione brushed off the apology. "He's five, I could hardly expect him to…"

They both let a beat of silence pass and looked over to George and Teddy. Both sporting wide grins, Teddy was perched happily on George's shoulders as the older man reached up to hold his hands and keep him in place as he jaunted up the street.

"Oh!" a thought occurred to Hermione suddenly and she turned back. "George mentioned you've been taking care of the shop for me while I've been – been in hospital. And I wanted to thank you, Remus, so much. You didn't have to do that, really."

"It was my pleasure, Hermione. Besides it's the summer; gives me a reason to enjoy Hogsmeade as something other than a chauffeur."

Hermione gave him a puzzled look.

"I was reinstated as the Defense teacher at the school the year after you graduated."

"Oh! Congratulations! Belatedly, of course, but that's fantastic!" Hermione declared and Remus bowed his head happily.

"Thank you," he replied with a nod. "It's good to be back."

She wished she could say the same.

"So where's Tonks? Still at the Ministry?" Hermione inquired, looking for George and Teddy up the way and not spotting them.

"Oh, yes, she's with Fred right now, but she's still an Auror," Remus answered, taking the first steps into the store and Hermione followed after him.

"She's with Fred?" Hermione's brows knit as she thought of George's twin and Tonks and what they had in common.

"My apologies. It's hard to -" Remus responded, casting a glance over his shoulder. "She's your goddaughter; our youngest, Winifred."

"You have a – _I have a goddaughter?_ "

"Yes, she's three and a half going on thirty," Remus laughed. He circumvented the counter and turned back to her. "I hope you don't mind; I was just going to check the mail and see if anything needed doing, but you're here and…"

"Oh, it's – I know it's weird, but I wouldn't know what I was doing anyway," Hermione looked around, lost. "I wouldn't know where to start."

The bookshelves were made of dark wood, smooth and warm and there wasn't a speck of dust that she could see along the long length of them. The wooden slats creaked a bit under her feet as she moved along them slowly, running her fingertips over the worn spines.

From mere minutes ago, worrying about being pregnant, to this moment of calm seemed like a lifetime. Time was passing oddly, and it was confusing her. She had been in the hospital a week after waking up and been home less than 24 hours and she was already a property owner and an entrepreneur, a fiancée and a godmother.

Well –

The _other_ Hermione was.

She had inherited all these aspects and parts of herself by default because of what had happened.

She – _this_ Hermione – was just trying to piece things together and try to make sense of the time between studying for NEWTs and the present day.

"Did I keep a journal?" Hermione asked out of the blue, and Remus looked up from where he was opening mail and skimming the correspondence inside.

"I'm not sure, truthfully," Remus reasoned. "George might be a better person to ask."

"Ask about what?" came his voice from the front door, and both Hermione and Remus looked around to see George heading into the shop with Teddy crouching down low on his shoulders to make it through unscathed. Both were holding precariously large ice creams, and Teddy held one down to her as they approached.

" _Ice cream_ ," Remus piped up. "You _lucky_ devil. Did you say thank you?" he asked Teddy with an eyebrow quirk.

"He did," George nodded.

"We got one for you," Teddy prompted again, gazing down at Hermione and holding the violently blue ice cream out to her.

"Oh, thank you." She took it and gazed closely at it. A saturated blue with swirls of pink and purple, one side covered in sprinkles.

"It's bubble-gum," George answered her unasked question. "Your favourite."

"Interesting," Hermione commented.

The cone _was_ delicious, it turned out, and Hermione very much enjoyed sitting in the front window and talking with Teddy as they finished their treats. When the boys left, George walked with her back up to the flat, hesitating at the front door.

"Do you mind if I – if I come in and get a few things?" George shuffled his feet minutely, pinching his lips together after.

"Oh, yes – right -"

Hermione stepped aside and he followed her in, turning up the hall and making his way away from her. His shoulders curled forward a bit and she instinctively ambled after him. He was at the bedside table, the one closest to the door, and he was rifling through the top drawer. He extracted a book and a notepad before briefly glancing up at her approaching, and turning away to the closet.

"Do you, uhm," Hermione started, sinking down onto the mattress gingerly, "do you live here? I mean…"

"No," George answered carefully. "I'm here a lot but I don't technically _live_ here."

He still had his back to her, and he was pulling out faded jeans and t-shirts and pair of running shoes, shrinking them and stashing them in his pocket.

"Have you seen -" he started, and then stopped. "Sorry, that was stupid, nevermind."

"Seen what?" Hermione pressed, ignoring him.

"My sweater. The blue one," he answered, shaking his head. "It's okay, it's -"

"This one?" Hermione leaned back over the mattress and tugged a blue hooded sweatshirt out from under the pillow she had slept on last night, holding it out to him.

"Oh," George accepted, dumbfounded.

"It was – it was on the bed when I came home and I just assumed that it was mine," Hermione filled the silence, and George's eyes flitted to and from hers quickly.

"You can keep it if you like," he shifted, offering it back awkwardly.

"No, no," Hermione leaned back, lifting her hands. "It's yours. Sorry, it's not clean, I uhm, I wore it bed last night."

"That's okay," George shook his head. "It's one of your favourites to steal."

"Right," Hermione nodded. "No wonder."

Silence fell again and Hermione took a deep breath.

"George, I'm really sorry," she began. "About – about all of this. I can't help but feel like you're leaving behind – I don't know, like this is your home and I don't want you to feel like – Oh, this is complicated."

"Hermione," he sighed. "This is _your_ home. You bought it before we – before. I still have my own place over my own shop and… It's fine. You need space. I make things… Complicated and confusing and, well I don't _get it_ but I'm trying to." He paused. "I just want you to be happy."

When he left, she couldn't help but feel like the hole inside of her was getting wider by the second, no matter what she did.

She cried.

* * *

 **A/N: So it's been a little bit, but I'm trying to make time to make regular updates. New Years Resolutions maybe.**

 **Please let me know how you're enjoying the unfolding of things so far. I really adore this story, even though it isn't much yet.  
**

 **Leave a review!**

 **Until next time xxx**


	7. Chapter 7

When the tears slowed and the cracking, grating, prying of the invisible retractor had successfully exposed her insides to the world, Hermione picked herself up and shuffled to the bathroom, feeling like she was blowing to and fro in the wind. Brittle and crackly, she looked in the mirror and stared at herself long and hard. The hot shower that followed – scorching, scalding, _cleansing –_ washed her clean, rinsed the tear tracks from her face but the puffy redness remained.

Daphne –

Daphne had said –

You're still you. You're still Hermione. But –

She wasn't. Things were different. Little things that she hadn't noticed at first, that maybe no one else had noticed –

Her hair was the same brown but longer than she had ever remembered having it in school. The dripping ends stuck wetly to her shoulders and chest, curled around the curves of her breasts and the angles of her shoulder blades and navigated towards her belly button. Still kinky, still unmanageable, Hermione sighed and –

Maybe she ought to cut it.

For a fresh start.

 _How poetic. Lose your memory and forget who you are and shear all your hair off._

Hermione sighed and dismissed the thought.

The delicate wings of her collarbones were the same but she was more tanned, much like the summer she'd spent in France. The flesh of her hips was rounder, _fuller_ , but her waist still cinched with the exact same curve under her ribs. The arches of her feet were familiar but the slenderness of her face was foreign.

She was a walking stack of precarious impossibilities and delicate hyperbole, prepared to topple at any moment.

She was Hermione but _not_ Hermione and it was disconcerting.

The contents of her dresser proved to be just as confusing. There was so much colour and gauzy fabric and she stared at it, perplexed. She dug and rummaged until she found a pair of shorts and a white tee and –

 _What_ was she supposed to wear under them because picking from the rather racy selection she seemed to have felt like wearing someone else's underwear and that thought made her cringe.

The _other_ Hermione seemed to favour shades of lilac and lavender and periwinkle undergarments, and fabrics that were soft and comfortable. But the fact remained that _she_ had not chosen them, or bought them, or worn them. She closed the drawer.

Wearing a pair of jeans was one thing but…

Hermione dug around until she found a bra that looked nearly unused, and pulled the clothes on. She felt strange in her own skin – no, it wasn't her skin, not this time – it was the way the shorts fit, and where the shirt fell, and –

It was another reminder that this was not her life.

And she didn't know where hers had gone.

* * *

" _You're both so stubborn," Fred looked over at her. "I mean, why does it have to be this way?"_

" _Why don't you ask him? He's the one who won't make a move," Hermione responded, rolling her eyes and reaching out to stock a shelf with the boxes she held in her arms._

" _Godric's left testicle," Fred leaned his head against a shelf down the aisle gently in exasperation. "He said the exact same thing."_

" _Why should I ask?" Hermione shot back._

" _Why shouldn't you?" Fred tallied._

" _I'm the girl!" she exclaimed._

" _When has that ever stopped you?" Fred pressed and Hermione huffed in response. "Yeah, see, I'm right."_

" _You're never right," she said derisively._

" _Au contraire, mon amie," Fred clicked his tongue and waggled a finger, pointing in the direction of the work room in the back as evidence._

" _What does that even mean?" Hermione ignored him and turned, her cheeks threatening to redden at the thought of the man behind the door._

" _You speak French, I've heard you," Fred laughed, purposely misinterpreting her and she threw him a glare._

" _That's not what I mean," she shook her head._

" _Like you don't know," he goaded with a self-satisfied smirk._

" _I'm converting to 'blissfully ignorant'," she declared, staying turned._

" _As if that could ever be possible, Miss Granger," came another voice and she held her breath, praying for –_

Hermione jerked awake, startling Crookshanks and prompting a hard glare from him as she jumped. Her cheeks were warm and -

"Hermione?" she heard a familiar voice calling from the living room. "Are you ready? Do you still want go?"

"Yes, I -" she choked a little on her words, nervousness bubbling and expanding in her chest cavity, forcing its way up up _up_ until her eyes widened. "I still want to go."

"Okay." Footsteps on the floorboards grew closer and closer until Ron poked his head around the corner. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

"I'm fine, Ron," she insisted, voice much smaller and far more unsure than she had realized until that moment. He made to open his mouth again to protest and she shook her head. "I'm _fine_."

Her hair had dried somewhat during her impromptu nap and she glanced at the mess in the mirror, and Ron laughed. Ignoring him, she ran her fingers through the mass and attempted to pull it back into something presentable, causing him to snicker even harder.

"Did you need some help?" Ron suggested, leaning against the doorway and watching in amusement.

"You know, you're supposed to let a girl get ready without laughing at her," she bit back which Ron took as a 'yes' and approached her. He looked at her from over her shoulder in the mirror in askance and she nodded.

Ron was gentle, gathering the hair up in one hand carefully, so carefully, careful not to touch the skin of her neck. She watched him move much more delicately than she ever remembered being and realized –

He thought she needed gentle hands right now.

Tears started to prick at the corners of her eyes and she steeled herself. Now was not the time for more crying.

Ron's eyes were focused on the task at hand and he was careful not to pull any snags or tangles. Hermione watched his face quietly, her head moving slightly under his ministrations.

She remembered –

She remembered loving him, _kissing_ him even, and writing letters to him from Hogwarts, telling him all about life as a normal student. She remembered his letters in return, long and as detailed as she could expect. She remembered his sign offs – ' _I miss you_ ' – and furrowed her brow.

She had wanted for _so long_ before eighth year for that to be their relationship, for it _be_ a relationship. She had yearned for him when he had left her and Harry on the horcrux hunt, just for him to be near, for him to be another familiar thing in the world of disaster and chaos and being hunted relentlessly.

And they had it, it seemed.

Memories came in snippets and glitches; Ron picking her up from Platform 9 3/4, hugging her tight and spinning her round. Her laugher. His joy. Harry, happy. Sun over the orchard. Running through Diagon Alley with a laugh on her lips.

What had _happened_ to that?

That had been _real_. That had been so real.

How could she have turned away from that for… Uncertainty and…

His brother? It hardly made any sense to her and not for the first time, Hermione supressed the urge to express her frustration at not being able to recall memories from the last four years.

Ron's fingers moved and twisted and in the blink of an eye all her hair was rather deftly braided into a rope that hung down her back and rested heavily between her shoulders.

"How do you even know how to braid?" Hermione asked curiously, observing him in the mirror as he looked up.

"Well," he laughed at met her stare quietly, "I watched you do it so many times."

"Ron…" she started. "What -"

Her voice caught and she felt the damn tears start to come on again.

"It's okay," Ron said quietly. "I know – well, I _don't_ know, but mum said it must be really hard for you because you're expecting us to be together, but things are very different. That doesn't change the fact that I love you, Hermione."

At those words, her view of him wavered and quivered and shook before the tears overflowed and she blinked them away stubbornly, dragging her palm over her wet cheeks roughly. Ron tugged her around and towards his chest, holding her tightly.

"It's okay," he whispered and Hermione felt her body clench, felt her mouth open in a grating soundless sob, felt the noise refuse to escape, refusing to leave, sinking its claws into her esophagus and holding firm. "It's just not the same as it was. We… we're better as friends. And we both knew it. I know you love me, and I love you, and – and maybe one day you'll remember -"

The damn cracked and the first strangled sob broke through, ripping her up as it left.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for all your supportive messages on here and on tumblr. You guys are The Best.  
**

 **Leave a review!**

 **xxx**


	8. Chapter 8

She cracked and roiled and fizzled down slowly, Ron holding her safely in his arms. The sensation, the content feeling, she remembered that so clearly. She remembered him being there, right at her heels; she remembered him being there, pulling her tight; she remembered him being there, close enough to kiss.

When Hermione finally lifted her head, eyes just as puffy as they were when George had left the flat earlier, they looked at each other for a moment. A close moment. A quiet moment.

Ron looked… Older, maybe. Which made sense, because he _was_ older. Four years older than the last time she remembered laying eyes on him during Easter Break. She saw strength and she saw resolve and she saw immense loyalty. She saw – she saw just a friend staring back at her. A friend. He loved her – very much, she could tell – but it wasn't the same sort of glimmer she – she -

And she wondered suddenly what exactly he saw in front of _him_.

Hermione.

Five foot three and three quarters.

Wild hair.

Dark eyes.

Knobby elbows.

Puffy eyes and blotchy face and damp sleeve.

But just a friend.

Hermione's heart wrenched inside her chest cavity, calling out for some sort of acknowledgement from his own, so close yet so far. As the cry echoed into nothingness and she received nothing in return, she took a deep breath to distract from the sting and let it out slowly.

It was still only her first full day out of the hospital and really, what a day it had been so far.

Her mind was still grating against the realization that, as he had said, there was nothing left there between them.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Ron offered as she hitched the world's smallest smile into place to placate him. She pulled back and took another deep breath.

"It's fine, Ron. Time changes things, right?" she asked, somewhat rhetorically.

"It really does," he agreed. "Are you _sure_ you want to go along today?"

"You sound like Harry," she gave a chuckle, and it was slightly less hollow-sounding than she was expecting. "Let's go. We're late."

"Yes, boss," Ron teased her and followed her out to the living room. He snagged a pot of floo powder from the mantle and offered it to her first.

When she arrived in the fireplace at the Burrow, Hermione was immediately relieved. This place was exactly the way she remembered it being.

The vibrant summer daylight was shining into the living room through the windows, the orchard to the west visible a short distance away. The warm glow of the wood – the floors, the beams overhead, the bookcases – was friendly and familiar. The fresh air sweeping through the room was refreshing and together everything felt like home.

The back screen door banged loudly, and little feet thumped closer down the hall. A streak of blonde hair and gangly limbs zoomed past the doorway.

"Grandma!"

The little girl's voice called out loudly, confidently.

"Yes, I'm coming, dear!"

"J'ai _très_ soif, may I have a drink s'il vous plaît plaît _plaît_?" a loud stomp accompanied every please the little girl forcibly expelled and Hermione's breath came to a halt as she listened to the exchange.

"That's an awful lot of pleases there young lady," Molly's voice chuckled and there was more scuffling to be heard. Hermione remained motionless, frozen in time.

"I said _très_ , grand-mère, très!"

"Yes, I can see! Here you go."

Silence.

"Thank you! I might need more, I'll come back later, je vais jouer avec Teddy!"

"Right-o, my darling." There was another series of quick feet on the floorboards and Victoire whizzed by again on her way back outside. "Don't slam the -"

The back screen banged loudly again and Hermione felt a laugh catch in her throat.

Ron came through the floo a moment later and nearly bowled her over.

"Sorry," he laughed. "I was a bit overenthusiastic on that one."

"Ron?" Molly called from the kitchen. "Is Hermione alright?"

"Why don't you ask her yourself?" he answered and gave Hermione a little shrug.

There was a scuffling and a few disjointed thumps before the family matron appeared at the doorway wringing a tea towel in her hands nervously.

"Oh my darling," she let out in one breath before stepping forward, hands extended and palms open. "How are you?"

The mother clasped Hermione's hands in her own and gave them a squeeze, her pale blue eyes skittering over Hermione's face and searching her own dark eyes for a clue to her well-being.

"I'm -" Hermione started. "I'm alright."

"Right, of course," Molly nodded, embracing her.

The smell of flour and the warmth of her arms and the tickle of ginger hair on her cheek was enough to make her feel watery again and Hermione tamped it down. Joy was growing and expanding in her chest slowly – tentatively - after her arrival at the Burrow. For the first time in what felt like forever, things were familiar. Even if people had aged and babies had been born and those chairs had swapped places, they were still the same. It still _felt_ the same, and it was a relief.

 _Finally_.

The view of the orchard was just the same as it had been in the summer before fourth year. It still smelled like the leather of the settee with an undercurrent of bergamot and loose tea leaves. The light still fell through the window the same way, landing on the circle rug, and the cushion Ginny always sat on was in its place off to the side. People outside were laughing and making noise, the sound of it drifting in on the breeze through the back screen door like every other summer she could remember.

"Why don't you come into the kitchen and I'll set you up with some tea," Molly pulled back and gave her a wide smile. "And you can take on the backyard when you're feeling up to it."

"Cor, I bring her around and she gets the _royal_ treatment," Ron piped up from behind them and Hermione was surprised to feel a sudden laugh escape. "You didn't even ask how _I_ was, and I'm your own _son_. What sort of treatment is this?"

"Oh hush you," Molly flapped the tea towel at him, grin still in place. "Are you hungry, dear? You look thin. Have you been eating? Do you fancy a bite? Dinner's not for -"

"I'm okay," Hermione offered her a smile in thanks, heading off her buildup of steam before she got into it. "Is it okay if I -" she motioned upstairs vaguely.

"Of course, dear." Molly stepped back. "The sunflowers are in bloom on the south field if you look out one of the windows."

As further reassurance, the same step near the first landing gave the anticipated squeak as Hermione climbed and climbed up to Ron's old room. The door was open and the sheer orange-ness of it made her want to squint for a moment. Hermione approached the window and looked out over the rolling hills around the Burrow.

The apple orchard stretched away to the west, green and speckled with red orbs, and as expected the large copse of sunflowers was in full bloom. The buoying bubble of familiarity grew a bit more, pressing on her ribs and forcing her to stand up a little taller.

A poster corner had fallen off the wall and as a breeze wafted through Ron's room, it crinkled loudly. Hermione stepped over to reaffix it firmly and trailed along the wall. She ran her fingertips over the lamp shade and the pillowcase, and felt the stitches of the knitted blanket under her palm.

Everything was warm here, and everything was safe.

When she laid her head down on Ron's pillow and curled up on her side quietly, she didn't expect to doze off so quickly. The next moment she opened her eyes, she knew what had happened. The sunlight was coming from a much different angle and the shadows were all different and –

"Was wondering when you were going to wake up."

The voice startled her and she snapped her head around hard enough to make it twinge, pressing a palm to her forehead.

George was leaning against the doorjamb, one foot crossed in front of the other, with a melancholy set to his lips.

"I – what time is it?" she asked, voice crackly from sleep.

"Nearly supper. Mum said to fetch you, or at least let you know the festivities are about to begin," he answered and ran his fingers through his hair. "So if you want, we're all out by the picnic table."

"Right," she acknowledged. Her heartbeat fluttered quickly in her chest at the thought of going downstairs by herself. As he turned away, she found herself calling out to him. "Wait for me!"

If she had this, it was a start.

If she had this, she would be okay.

* * *

 **A/N: A lot of you seem to enjoy your insides being ripped out by this story, if the reviews are any indication. However, it was time for something a little different.**

 **Thank you to everyone who has read, favourited, followed, and commented. I can't believe the reception so far.**

 **Leave a review!**

 **xxx**


	9. Chapter 9

Hermione followed George down the stairs of the Burrow and out onto the back porch. The cluster of wellington boots was much smaller than she remembered it being, and she pressed her lips together. Nothing ever _doesn't_ change; she would do well to remember that until she didn't need to anymore.

The sounds of people gathered for a party were crystalline and clear, the sharp high laughter of children ringing loud like a tuning fork. The sun was lower on the horizon, the shadows longer and more augmented compared to when she had arrived. When they rounded the corner of the house into the garden, George walking a half-step in front of her, Hermione saw a large group of people gathering to eat at a long, rickety-looking picnic table.

There was Harry and Ron, the little blonde girl from earlier, familiar redheads, unfamiliar bodies. Green countryside, rolling hills, the drifting perfume of the blue and lilac-spackled hydrangeas.

And it was chaos.

"Hermione!"

"Dad, can I have –"

"Auntie Mi!"

"Dad, you're not listening, can I _please -_ "

"Pass the rolls!"

"Mine!"

"Will you stop it, for Merlin's sake -"

"Non, tu dois manger les legumes ou _pas de gateau_ -"

It was an overwhelming wave – a tsunami, really – of instant information absorption, something Hermione hadn't really thought about. Her brain started putting pieces together despite the fact that her feet had come to a complete and abrupt halt a few long strides from the table.

A few things were apparent to Hermione in less than a breath, the biggest thing being that four years was apparently quite a long time, as a lot had changed overnight.

Fleur was reasoning with the blonde girl about eating her vegetables before she got a slice of Harry's birthday cake while Bill was wrestling a little boy into an old carved highchair. Teddy was diligently separating the ripe grape tomatoes from the rest of his pasta salad while his father provided a little girl in springy pigtails fresh green beans to munch on. Percy was lecturing on something, his fork tines punctuating his statements in a way that reminded Hermione instantly of an orchestra conductor, and meanwhile, Daphne was angled in the opposite direction chatting with a lady Hermione didn't recognize in the slightest. Charlie was sneaking fingerfuls of cake icing when Molly wasn't looking, and gave Hermione a cheeky wink and eyebrow wiggle when she spotted him and narrowed her eyes automatically.

Small people, big people.

Children and friends.

Strangers.

Family.

"Hermione!"

"Hello!" she called out, giving a somewhat tight little wave of the hand when everyone had realized she was indeed there, craning necks to look.

"We're here!" George bellowed loudly, drawing attention to himself and catching a racing Victoire under her arms as she hurdled for a shocked looking Hermione. He swung her up high, distracting her from the newcomer, her shriek of happiness ringing out over the grassy hills.

"Victoire, ici," Fleur scolded. "You 'ave not feenished your supper."

"There's a seat for you here," Harry called out. There was a great shuffling and kerfuffle but in the end the table made a rather large spot for Hermione near the quieter end of the table.

Hermione walked tentatively around the table to the open spot, smiling as widely as she could at the familiar faces that soothed the welts of her mind and lost memory. Gently and just as tentatively, hands reached out for her as she passed, clasping her fingers and hands momentarily and reassuring her. Her heart felt as if it was expanding, pushing, _pressing_ against her ribcage, ballooning out from between the bones and ligaments and cartilage –

"Hi," she rasped out as she stepped over the bench seat and settled next to Ron.

"How are you?" Ginny asked, pushing her flaming hair out of her face and behind an ear.

The silence of the table was wholly contradictory to what she had walked into and she looked up, startled.

"Oi!" George's voice from right behind her made her jump in her seat.

The table clattered back to life as people went back to their meals and conversations hastily, and Hermione fought the urge to laugh as she spotted Remus' cheeks flare up in embarrassment in being caught amongst the eavesdroppers.

George slid into the open spot next to Hermione and she shuffled over, realising that in the shift the table had not left another spot open.

Her heart clenched tightly, _spasmodically_ , and her stomach fluttered briefly before bottoming out entirely. George's leg moved, brushing hers fleetingly and Hermione glanced down for a moment, noting the end of his wand sticking out of his pocket.

"I'm -" her voice caught in her throat as she looked back up quickly. "As well as can be, I suppose."

Ginny nodded and passed her a bowl of green salad.

"Happy birthday, Harry," Hermione leaned forward and grinned at her friend on the other side of the redhead.

"What did you get me?" he asked casually, looking around for a gift she might have brought and Ginny laughed, smacking his thigh lightly. "Just kidding, Hermione. You're the best birthday gift," he finished with a simper and Ron gagged on his mouthful of food.

Fred barked out a laugh and Molly narrowed her eyes from the other side of the table amongst the children.

"Shut your gob, Harry, you're going to make me sick," Bill laughed.

Hermione tuned out the cacophonous miscellany of clatter and watched as people threw theirs heads back in laughter, handed bowls and plates up and down the table, wrangled small children, ribbed and teased each other, elbowed each other, and grinned.

Family.

She had everything she needed right here.

Hermione finished her dinner feeling very much like she was in an impenetrable bubble, one that hushed the noises around her as she ate and continued to watch her surroundings quietly. The sun was sinking lower and lower in the sky, the light hot and intense on her back as the angle grew more acute.

"Anyone for a coffee with cake?" Molly called out and there was a smattering of answers and soon there was a French press being magiked along the bench followed by a sugar bowl and cream. The massive white frosted cake that Charlie had been swiping from earlier was decked in candles and the group sang Harry a rousing good version of a birthday song before he blew the flames out so hard his hair flopped forward.

Hermione laughed and clapped helped hand generous helpings of cake down to the other end.

She was full, stuffed, and not just form the food.

The energy of being around people she _knew_ she loved and who loved her in return, where no one was asking what she remembered and didn't remember, where no one was asking her to prove she was still Hermione just a _different_ Hermione –

She felt some colour start to trickle back into her life.

"You alright?" George leaned a fraction closer and caught her eye. "You're a bit -"

He motioned at her face vaguely and Hermione raised her palms to feel her warm cheeks. Her blood pumped happily through her veins, moving more quickly than it had done since she had woken up in St. Mungo's.

"Yes, I'm just -" her voice caught "- warm."

George grinned.

* * *

The sun had set and, like a blanket, the cooler air began to toss their hair and shirt flaps gently. Summer nights were one of the things that seem to make most people happy, even if they didn't realise it.

The hot stifling air of the day was brushed away by cooler breezes and everyone gave a great sigh of relief. It was still warm enough that no one needed to go inside or get a sweater but everything became a lot more bearable. Twinkle lights that looked an awful lot like live fireflies drifted more brightly around the back yard and Hermione eventually left the table to wander the perimeter of the garden.

Some people remained at the table, some were playing with children, and Fred had fallen asleep in the middle of the grass. George was leaning over his face with Teddy and taking advantage of his twin's temporary weakness, his broad shoulders shielding both their sinister plans and Teddy's quiet giggling.

When she arrived at the patch of sunflowers, there was still the remnants of a gentle heat emanating from them from the daytime sun. As Hermione reached out and brushed the nearest furry stalk, she felt someone behind her.

"We're so glad you came, Hermione," Arthur offered her a genuine smile, which she returned, and he pulled her to his side gently.

"I am too," she nodded, and turned back to the flowers, his arm still warm at her shoulder blades.

The pair stood in silence, the party behind them winding down.

Family.

She had everything she needed right here.

Or –

Perhaps she had everything she needed right here _inside her._

* * *

 **A/N: HI.**

 **I'm back.**

 **I'm doing a raffle over on tumblr to clean out my drabble wips so go check that out.**

 **I'm also always up for aesthetics requests in my ask box.**

 **I'm gonna keep ploughing away at this, okay, because I heart it.**

 **Thank you thank you thank you to absolutely everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited etc and sent messages on here and tumblr in the last little bit. You guys rock. (side note I _cannot_ believe we hit over 300 reviews already?)  
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 **Leave a review!**


	10. Chapter 10

" _You've always been a resilient young woman, Hermione_ ," were Arthur's parting words to her the night before.

They faintly echoed around in her head all morning until an owl pecked at the front glass window. Hermione tried opening the latch, finding it stubborn and she grunted as she put her back into it. The catch gave a mighty squeal before opening and the small owl hopped in and settled on her window sill.

The bird offered her his leg and she removed a small scroll.

Who would be writing her?

The little ball of feathers gave a squawk and dropped out of sight again.

Hermione popped the seal and spread it out, a glass vial with a cork stopper tumbling out unexpectedly. She bent to pick it up, frowning deeply when she realised the silvery wisps and swirls of mercury inside were a memory.

' _Dear Hermione,_

 _I don't know how much these will help, but it's something._

 _Dennis Creevey'_

Hermione wrinkled her nose in confusion and glanced back outside to see if she could spot the bird and call it over to take it back. It wasn't there.

She was just tentatively poking around in the kitchen for something to eat when she heard another _tap tap tap_ at the window and _another_ owl was there, this time large and imperiously regal.

' _Hermione-_

 _I hold you in the very fondest of memories and I hope these may provide you with something you might be looking for._

 _-Kingsley'_

As the morning progressed, more and more owls tapped at her front window, forms distorted by the poured glass pane until they hopped into the front room. Notes and letters from a wide range of people poured in and soon her small dining table was covered in folded slips of paper and phials of memories. All her windows were open now to accept any more birds that might show up and Hermione occupied herself with sorting through her closet until any new visitors screeched for her attention.

When the late afternoon sun slanted hotly through her bedroom window, there was a slow knock at the door.

Harry stood on the landing the top of the stairs with a large shallow stone basin balanced between his palms.

"So _you're_ the reason I've been receiving owls all morning," she accused, turning and leaving the door open for him to enter.

"No actually," he started. "Well, _initially_ , yeah but you can blame Ron for not being clear about waiting until I had a chance to warn you."

He laughed and kicked the door shut. There was a thud as he set the pensieve down on some surface behind her and she continued wandering back to the bedroom. The sound of his trainers padded along after her socked feet as he chuckled.

"I'm not used to you yet," he said absently.

When she craned her head to look at him, he was giving her a perplexed look, his head cocked to the side slightly.

"What do you mean?" she asked. " _You_ didn't lose your memory too, did you?"

Harry laughed loudly again, the sound of it filling the space of the quiet apartment.

"No," he considered her seriously again for a moment. "Just little things I guess. Like you always wear your hair back. I'd forgotten you used to do that. You look different."

Hermione hummed noncommittally, acknowledging his statement without commenting.

"So," Harry switched the subject. "Anyway, I didn't think it would spread this fast but I asked people last night to send you memories they have of you, just in case you want to see…"

Hermione trailed her fingertips over the uneven surface of the dresser, avoiding his eyes for a moment before looking up.

He was trying to help her regain things.

She wouldn't cry.

But did she really want to see the other Hermione living her life? Would it become a big game of comparisons, a reminder of the part of her that was lost?

"Thank you, Harry."

"Errr, Hermione, why is all your underwear in the garbage?"

She huffed out a laugh at the pink on Harry's cheeks as his eyes landed on the garbage bin in the middle of the floor, boxes off to the side filled with gauzy dresses and holey sweaters.

"It, ah," Hermione shrugged. "It feels weird wearing someone else's clothes, especially the underwear."

"Ew," Harry grimaced. "I didn't think of it that way."

"Neither did I until yesterday," she remarked.

* * *

The next day, Hermione rose early and watched the little village come alive.

Shopkeepers arrived from the residential area or, like her, descended into their shops to open for the day. Buckets of flowers floated out of the florist's across from her as if on a lilting breeze, and the sharp smell of freshly cut stems and foliage floated up to her on the second floor. The front door of the bakery was propped open and Hermione nearly fell out of her chair when there was a great, resounding thud and a puff of flour flew into the open air. A white-covered cat danced out a moment later, streaking up the street. The ice-cream shop owner was out cleaning his storefront, the magiked rag dipping into the soapy water and wringed itself out before scrubbing at the colourfully striped awning.

Hermione set her coffee mug down.

She wouldn't be opening the store today because she was in desperate need of new clothes and groceries as well.

She looked out the window again.

There was nothing stopping her from getting out there. It was the same world. She still knew her way around. It was the _people_ she wished would disappear for a bit.

This was confirmed when she ran into someone she vaguely recognized as Tracey Davis.

"Oh – my – gosh, you didn't owl me about my last date with Thomas!" the small dark-haired beauty latched onto Hermione's arm in the bakery and gave it an enthusiastic shake.

"Oh! – Hello," she startled, not wanting to seem unkind.

"You'll never guess, you'll never guess, you'll never guess!" she prompted.

"I'll never guess what?" she asked automatically, still taken off guard.

"Here you are," the baker announced, handing Hermione a newly-sliced loaf of bread.

"Thank you!" she reached for it, looking away from Tracey for a moment.

"He _kissed_ me – Hermione, he _kissed_ me!" she gave a little squeal, her blue eyes twinkling happily.

"Oh, that's – that's lovely, right?" she offered, wondering where to slip into the conversation that she had no idea who Thomas was, that she barely knew the woman in front of her when she had clearly been friendly up to a week ago.

"Yes, I should think so," Tracey rolled her eyes. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Hermione shook her head gently. "Just – I had an accident."

" _Are you alright_?" Tracey looked her up and down quickly.

"Yes, I just – this is awkward, I'm so sorry – I lost some memory and I don't really remember you?" she finished lamely with a shrug.

Tracey's jaw dropped open and her eyes were wide.

"I – I – _what_ – I'm so sorry -" she took a step back and let her hand drop from Hermione's arm.

"You're just the first person I've spoken to that doesn't already know," Hermione wanted to hide.

"Daphne didn't say anything! Oh, well I was in America all week – maybe that's why," she said thoughtfully. "How much – I mean, what _do_ you remember?"

"Almost the end of seventh year," Hermione informed her.

"Oh, _wow_ ," Tracey continued to stare, wide-eyed, until she realized what she was doing and shook herself out of it. "I don't even know what to say because I'm trying to think if we even spoke then and I don't think it was until _after_ graduation that we…"

Hermione shook her head.

"But maybe you could come over for tea sometime? Maybe we could have Daphne and… And anyone else I don't remember over one afternoon," she suggested, hoping it might ease the sting of a friend completely forgetting about her. She didn't really _want_ to have a bunch of strangers in her sitting room but she supposed any friends the old Hermione had made deserved at least an answer to why she'd fallen off the face of the planet.

"Yeah, of course! Yeah, just get Daph to let me know, she knows how to get a hold of me."

* * *

 **A/N: I've had a LOT of really lovely feedback from you guys and your messages make my day.  
**

 **Keep doing what you're doing and leave a review!**

 **xxxx**


	11. Chapter 11

Harry had looked over all the notes and names and vials of people who had taken the time to send her a memory and approved them all, paranoid as he was.

One that intrigued her the most had been a frosted glass phial from Draco Malfoy. There had been no note on the folded slip of thick, creamy parchment aside from the quick scrawl of his name in a scratchy elegant hand. She'd puzzled over what Malfoy might have to share with her, a memory of her former self that he obviously thought was important.

Hermione stood with hesitant indecisiveness after she tipped the contents of his phial into the shimmering pensieve water, dressed in her newly purchased clothes. Stiff and new, they were still more comfortable than the old Hermione's clothes.

She took a deep breath and submerged her face in the water.

 _People were streaming into the castle from the Entrance Court and the thick smell of smoke in the air swirled around in the morning breeze. Hogwarts was absolutely covered in rubble and blasted craters, so much that it looked as if it had been the centre of a meteor shower sometime during the night._

 _She knew that that was not the case._

 _The sun had just dawned over the Scottish hillside; the Final Battle was over, things would finally be happy again, one day. They wouldn't need to be on the run anymore, they could eat real food and sleep in warmer beds and wash in an actual bath –_

 _Her leg was stinging and bleeding profusely, the jean around the wound ripped and charred. Hermione had felt the Welt Hex collide with her thigh as she was trying to scale a large chunk of castle wall. It had caused her to trip and fall, scraping the side of her head roughly. As the people around her continued to cheer and nurse their own injuries, she cast her eyes around for Ron, for Harry, though she was certain he was buried in the middle of the crowd somewhere, shaking heads and accepting embraces no matter how much he wanted to fall dead asleep._

 _Ron's red hair was nowhere to be seen and Hermione shifted and leaned her weight more heavily onto the rock behind herself. She took her first steps toward the arch of the massive and destroyed door and before the minute was up she felt someone slip her arm over their shoulders and take a large majority of her weight._

" _Thank you, I -"_

 _The Hermione from May 2_ _nd_ _turned her head, hair covered in stone dust and face smeared with sweat and blood and soot, her voice catching in her throat when she saw who was helping her._

 _Even under the dulling of grime and battle, Draco Malfoy's hair still stood out sharply against the sea of browns and blacks._

 _They both observed one another, and Draco was the first to break the stare and shuffle them forward without another word. He helped her over to the front door and largely lifted her into the Entrance Hall, a narrow path free to get through to the Great Hall beyond._

 _His arm was tight around her back, supporting her as gently as possible. She remembered this from her point of view, she remembered –_

 _The haze of dust settling over the castle, the constant noise, bursts of happiness and grief._

 _The complete inability she had to turn down the Slytherin's help._

 _If she had come this far and he decided to hex her, so be it. She had nothing left to give._

 _Instead of turning his wand on her, Draco helped Hermione to the first free spot in the Great Hall, setting her down slowly. Hermione hissed in pain but smothered the noise in the next second, refusing to display how much the stinging hurt._

 _Shocking her yet again, Draco didn't turn and leave her. He crouched in front of her and surveyed her leg and the blood still dripping from it. He quickly pulled his robes over his head and ripped large strip after large strip from it to form a bandage to staunch the flow._

 _Both Hermiones watched him in awe as he wordlessly wrapped her leg up as best as he could. When he was finished, his hands were smeared with her blood, bright and red and wet._

" _Sorry -" she started to apologize, breaking the spell of silence._

" _Don't be. It's all the same isn't it?" Draco said. She watched him wipe his hands slowly on the fabric of his pants, already filthy from the battle._

" _Yeah," Hermione saw herself nod minutely and give Draco the most infinitesimally small smile she had ever seen. "It's all the same."_

The scene dissolved in front of her eyes and she stood up, pulling herself from the swirling remnants of the memory.

Draco Malfoy had always had too much pride to apologize for anything, and that was the most she would likely ever get from him. As little as was said, a lot had been communicated and she remembered feeling like it had been an out of body experience.

Of course, the whole thing had felt like an out of body experience, of course.

Hermione found there were tears in her eyes, and images of the ruined castle and grounds floated around in her mind. She wiped them away and took a breath.

Draco Malfoy had wanted to make sure she remembered that moment.

* * *

Tony Blair was still the muggle Prime Minister and Queen Elizabeth was still the Monarch, thought Bill Clinton was no longer President of the United States. The last thing she remembered reading about in the muggle news from 1999 was that the Discovery Space Shuttle docked with the International Space station. Since then it had run four other flights.

And now there was a massive ferris wheel on the opposite bank of the Thames.

"I'll have the roast beef sandwich," Hermione handed the menu to the waitress before sipping her water again.

"You're vegetarian," Ginny commented before her eyes widened. "Sorry. I guess you're not, actually."

"It's okay," Hermione assured her she wasn't mad at the slip.

People still kept doing that, and it wasn't bound to end soon. The one she got asked all the time was " _Are you on your way somewhere important?_ " as if she was never spotted outside her apartment in pencil skirts and blouses. Apparently the old Hermione wore nothing but sneakers.

"So how did the weekend go?" Ginny sipped her drink and observed Hermione from over her glass.

Hermione decided to open _The Hunter and Hare_ over the weekend, just for a few hours. She had spent the whole of Saturday and Sunday in the shop, exploring the shelves and getting to know the layout. She riffled carefully through the back office and front desk, looking for any clues to – well anything, really.

The front door had been propped open and Hermione had waved to the woman across the way with the flowers. There had been no customers but she did reply to owl correspondence and owl orders. Though she didn't know where things were in the office, she seemed to be able to find everything she needed fairly easily. Things were organised and obvious and she was pretty sure the business wouldn't be shut down while she learned how to do everything the previous Hermione had.

"It went well, I think," she answered. "I'm pretty sure I managed to answer all the letter waiting for me and nothing was too confusing."

"How strange is it trying to run a business without knowing what in Merlin's name you're supposed to do?" Ginny asked, taking another sip of the juice.

"Well, Remus gave me a quick rundown and…" Hermione trailed off.

Ginny waited expectantly while Hermione found the right words.

"It's strange but – it sort of feels like I already know my way around pretty well?"

It _was_ strange. Whenever she thought something like " _where's the quills?_ ", they would be in the first drawer she looked in.

"Everything seemed to be right… where I thought it would be," she finished.

"And have you been looking at those memories? Harry told me about the massive pile of them on the table."

"And the bookshelves, _and_ the sideboard. They just keep coming in, Ginny. And I never know what's going to be inside them. On one hand I want to know, I want to watch them all in one day, I want to know who I _was_ , but on the other – I don't want to know. I don't want to compare. I don't want to even have am image of who she – I – _she_ was."

Ginny let silence fall for a few moments before she nodded gently.

"That makes sense. And it's okay to not know what you want, Hermione," the redhead continued. "You always want a plan. And I don't think there is one for this sort of situation."

"Sometimes it seems so pointless," Hermione sighed. "I make myself get up and eat, I try to keep myself occupied in the day. I feel like I'm floundering in things that aren't mine. Things I never wanted."

"You did," Ginny said.

"But I don't _feel_ like I did."

"I know."

"How's George?" Hermione asked, changing the subject.

"He's alright," Ginny answered. "I think he really misses you."

"I miss me, too."

* * *

 **A/N: I know some people would prefer longer chapters, and I** _ **am**_ **trying to lengthen them. Sometimes it just feels better to post a short one.**

 **Thank you for all your feedback and lovely notes on the last chapter.**

 **xxx**


	12. Chapter 12

"Is George there?" Hermione asked, head in the fire grate. Looking up at Ginny, she watched as the girl balanced one of the smallest babies in the crook of her arm – she couldn't seem to remember if it was Louis or Molly or any of the other children's names she had heard in the last few weeks - while directing the plates around to set the table.

"Yeah, I think so," the redhead answered. "Aren't you coming over for supper though?"

"Yeah in a minute, I just need – can you ask George to come through? I need his help," Hermione asked, cheeks going pink at the tiny smile on Ginny's lips. She whipped her head out of the fireplace and waited impatiently for George to floo through to her apartment.

Hermione had made a point to start speaking with George more, to not be so awkward around him at family gatherings and dinners. The natural inclination to shy away from him or talk less around him had gotten to a point of irritation for her, and so she was striving to conquer it altogether.

A moment later, the fire glowed an otherworldly green before George stepped through into her living room. His shoes were made of shiny brown leather, and his gray suit slacks fell and broke at exactly the right place. His black tie was long and skinny and dark against the crisp white shirt tucked into his belt, making his slender height all the more evident. The white fabric stretched over his shoulders smoothly as he turned in the wrong direction to spot her and Hermione thought she saw a flash of colour on the back of his neck.

"Hermio – oh, hi," he turned again, spotting her by the front window.

"Hi," she remarked, schooling her face into a blank mask.

"Hi," he repeated, running a hand through his ginger hair. "Ginny said you needed me?"

"Yes, do you -" Hermione started, clearing her throat. "Do you know if I kept a journal or a – I mean where did I keep important things? Like my passport or…"

"Passport?" George asked, brows furrowed.

"Important muggle paperwork," Hermione commented dismissively. "For travelling."

"Oh, is that the little red book with the gold on the front?"

"Yes," she looked up at him again. "Have you seen it? Have you seen me put it away before?"

"Yeah it's in the bedroom closet," he remarked. "Are you going somewhere?"

Hermione shook her head.

"No, I'm just trying to figure out where things are and maybe – I don't know – I've just been searching through things and trying to figure this out," she answered. "Can you show me the closet…?"

George turned and lead the way back to the bedroom and Hermione cringed at the state of the room. She had been digging around under the bed and had pulled everything out to go through; the bed was piled with things like a duffle bag, some old ice skates, a stack of books and a random empty bowl with a spoon.

"Ah, did you find that under the bed?" he pointed to the bowl as he crossed the room.

"Yeah," Hermione nodded.

"Sorry, that's – that was me," George reached for the closet doorknob. "I like to eat cereal in bed and you hated that I left the bowl on the floor and forgot about it all the time."

George reached up to the topmost shelf in the closet after turning on the light and pulled an old shoebox down without having to stand on his toes and strain. He turned and placed it in her waiting hands, giving her a small smile.

"Hermione," he started as she turned away to set the dusty box on the bedspread, the image if his skin under the white shirt burned into the back of her eyelids. "Why didn't you just _accio_ it?"

Hermione's face flushed hot instantly, the beats of silence stretching out between them.

"Hermione?" George prompted quietly.

"I, uhm," she started, "I haven't used my wand since… everything."

"Oh."

Hermione kept her eyes lowered, her lashes blurring her view of the pale floorboards.

"The – Ron – told me the Healers said that's totally normal, for witches and wizards to stop using magic; it's a biological thing – for healing." George had stopped a few steps away from her and he didn't come any closer.

"I know. I know it's an instinct. I know," she repeated.

"It's not really, ah, _unusual_ for you to go wandless anyway," he commented with a single huff of laughter and a wide grin. "You enforced these 'magic detoxes' – you were absolutely mad sometimes."

Hermione inhaled.

His voice sounded so _familiar_. Not in the sense that she knew she had known him for over a decade. It was a smooth resonation in her chest, the kind she associated with men and how they spoke to someone with whom they were intimate. It was in the way he stood around her that made her feel like he was comfortable being at any distance from her. How he could take one more half-step in order to enter her personal bubble and not blink at it. How he must have done that hundreds of times with the other her.

"Have you uncovered anything interesting about the time you can't remember yet?" George asked, looking away and shifting on his heels.

"So far, just that Ginny had no idea she was helping me shop for lingerie _for you_ one time -"

George huffed out a large laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling but his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

"Right, yeah, that was right before she spilled the beans and we had to come clean, I remember," he said.

"Right," Hermione sighed.

"Er, right," he repeated, bending his elbows awkwardly and pointing his thumbs over his shoulder to the bedroom doorway. "Shall we – do you want to go? It's nearly supper."

* * *

Dinner went successfully and smoothly, Hermione again remaining largely quiet and passive in order to enjoy the details which had not changed in the last four years.

The August sun was hot and stifling, making her apartment feel intensely claustrophobic and humid. She propped all the windows open and prayed for a breeze while she stood under cool water in the shower, the stream of which was pulling the curls from her hair until it was slicked long and heavy down her back. The tackiness of the day clung to her skin stubbornly and she used a loofa to slough it away.

The apartment felt empty most of the time. Empty of personality - or perhaps full of personality that had been erased, the _home_ the other Hermione had built waiting with a pregnant pause for its owner to return.

Perhaps that was too dramatic.

She had better keep the hyperbole in check.

When she emerged, long damp hair already kinking with curls, she sat down on the green sofa and chewed on her inner lip.

The mass of glittering and frosty glass phials waiting for her attention had been weighing more and more on her mind. So far she had looked at a few that had been largely inconsequential. Lavender had sent her what appeared to be the girl's favourite conversation she had had with Hermione, while allowing the girl to pluck her eyebrows at Hogwarts. Hermione, of course, remembered this from her own point of view as well, but it was a nice reminder of a moment shared.

She had stayed away from anything sent by anyone with the last name Weasley, of course.

Ron had left her one and as she stared at it, she wondered what he thought most important to show her.

" _Well, it's been a few years now…" Ron's voice trailed off and the memory Hermione looked up at him._

 _Hermione could tell from the way this Hermione's hair was wilder in its braid, the way this Hermione's skin was more tan and the way her freckles stood out under the summer sun, that this Hermione was the Other Hermione, or just about._

" _I know that," she paused, "I know that. I just don't think that's a good enough reason."_

" _I love you," Ron responded. "I thought that was reason enough."_

" _I love you, too," memory Hermione nodded gently, letting the silence fall again as she turned and looked out over the apple orchard._

 _The rows and rows of trees were laden with the fruit, the fresh scent sweet on the breeze when one deigned to pass through. The late summer sun was hot and the ground baked hard, tufts of grass brittle and dry._

"… _But you're not_ in _love with me, are you?" Ron questioned in a way that sounded far more like a statement than an inquiry._

" _Something is different for sure," she nodded. "It's been a long time coming, I think."_

" _You," Ron stated. "You're different."_

" _That's a fair assessment," was all memory Hermione said. "We all change."_

 _Hermione's eyes were shimmering, the memory shaking in front of her eyes as she watched the beginning of the end - or rather, the end of the end, for her and Ron. Her gut was tight and heavy, tensed and leaden._

" _Race me," her own voice demanded suddenly._

" _What?" Ron asked, confused._

" _Race me up the hill; I want to see the sun set over the river!"_

 _The other Hermione jumped down from the porch bannister, face wide with a smile as she bounded down the back steps._

" _What?!" Ron called after her, but she was already racing, racing, pounding over the grass and into the field beyond the yard._

" _I'm winning!" she shouted back. "I thought you said your 'athletic abilities' were improving?"_

" _What'd you use quotes for?" Ron's voice followed after her, as well as his bounding steps and Hermione knew he was racing up behind her, gaining on her with his long legs._

 _But she didn't look._

 _She was captivated._

 _By herself._

 _But this was not her –_

 _This couldn't be her._

 _This girl was strong and powerful, her legs pumping fast and hard to propel her at breakneck speed towards the crest of the hill. This girl's ribs expanding and contracted smoothly, this girl's forehead grew damp with sweat, this girl's knees and elbows didn't fly out at odd and awkward angles. She took the incline head on, arms pumping and sneakers kicking up dry dust as she raced up the hill._

 _When Ron finally caught up to Hermione, she was standing at the peak of the hill proudly, chest heaving, looking quite pleased with herself as she gazed down at the valley below. The sun was sinking and sliding down to the horizon, the sky vibrant with colour._

" _I just want more," she panted. "There's nothing wrong with getting married and having a gaggle of kids and living in the countryside, Ron, I just don't want that. And I know you do."_

" _Hermione…"_

" _I won't be happy. And I'll make you miserable, you know I will. I_ want _you to have what you want – it just isn't going to be with me."_

 _The breath felt like it was being crushed out of her lungs, the weight of an anvil settling over her sternum._

" _So that's it then?" Ron asked her, their silhouettes dark against the background. His voice wasn't strained; he didn't sound like he was about to cry or get upset._

" _Yeah," Hermione sighed with relief._

* * *

 **A/N: HI.**

 **More stuff, right?**

 **We're gonna keep finding stuff out about The Lost Years, don't worry.**

 **How are we feeling about this story? Are we still liking it?**

 **Let me know!**

 **xoxo**


	13. Chapter 13

She had starting keeping a list in order to keep track of the memories as she made her way through them. Maybe if it was easier for her to string the snippets together mentally, she would be able to form a sort of timeline, tracking her previous life up until the moment her slate had been wiped clean. If she was lucky, she would be able to spot the change in her old self and glean some insight into how she had ended up owning a business and property in Hogsmeade and not running the handful of Departments in the Ministry that she would have gladly taken on as her own.

That had been the plan, after all.

Kingsley had been quite pleased with her pre-graduation acceptance of his offer to be his undersecretary, something he had been quite passionate about. It had almost nothing to do with her role in bringing down Voldemort, and everything to do with her drive to make the world a better place in every way she was able to, and he had said as much.

Hermione Granger had opinions on what was right and what was wrong, strong opinions. There were people who needed help, witches and wizards who needed proper representation in government. There were biased and hindering laws to amend, to wipe out, to improve, to overhaul. There were so many things she could think of to improve the living conditions of half-breeds and creatures across the country and her heart ached for every single one.

Being the Minister's Senior Undersecretary was a lofty place to start, and Hermione hadn't wanted to step on anyone's toes to get there. But if she could skip the "climbing the ranks" so to speak, the faster she could actually influence change to happen. Time was of the essence, before people started to forget the horrid details of the War and effects of Blood Prejudice.

And so her plan had been simple. Attend Eighth Year at Hogwarts, graduate with esteem, and use her name for more good than she could possibly imagine while still at Hogwarts.

Somehow, between now and _then_ , she had changed her mind and become a bookshop owner.

"And you're positive there's not going to be anything bad in this one?" Hermione asked Daphne, yet again.

"Yes, good lord. I've told you, you two buried the hatchet a long time ago," the blonde rolled her eyes dramatically.

"It just seems odd…" Hermione pondered, turned the vial of silvery memory between her fingers, unsure.

"I can ask her what's in it, if you like. But I'm positive it's not going to start the next Wizarding War. You're being so _dramatic_."

Hermione scoffed at her friend's words. The delicate calligraphy would have been beautiful if it weren't for the sharp spikes of ink; she supposed it was still beautiful, in a way that suited the owner precisely.

"I can't imagine us ever having cause to settle anything," Hermione thought aloud.

"Well, you're both my friends. It would have made things a little odd at the wedding if you hadn't been on speaking terms, in the very least."

"Explain to me again how you managed to marry Percy Weasley?" Hermione laughed lightly.

She had been so skeptical of what had led to that arrangement but Daphne's eyes lit up when she looked at her husband, more than she had ever seen anyone's eyes brighten when looking at the studious Ministry worker. Once she had seen the same look in Percy's eyes when directed at her Slytherin friend, Hermione had consciously decided to accept that as one of the facts about 'the future' she might never understand. Regardless, she could still be happy for her friend.

"Well, doll, you hired me on in the Ministry as a consult on Ancient Pureblood traditions, customs, dark object manipulation. I'm not just a pretty face, you know," Daphne sat back on the sofa, large mug of tea in her hand. "And Percy was constantly in and out of your department for one thing or another and we got to chatting…" Daphne let her sentence trail off.

"And the rest is history?" Hermione prompted quizzically.

"As they say," Daphne nodded.

"History I can't remember," Hermione clarified, though her voice lacked any indication of self-pity for the moment, which Daphne seemed to approve of. "Alright, then."

"I'll wait here, shall I?" was the last thing Hermione heard before she tipped the contents of the delicate vial – from Pansy Parkinson, no less - into the pensieve. She submerged her face with as much grace as one could muster under the circumstances.

She didn't have much of an idea of what to expect. The last thing she could remember of Pansy Parkinson was her shout to grab Harry in the Great Hall, just after Voldemort had called for the students of Hogwarts to offer him up in a trade for their safety.

And she hadn't thought much of the girl since that moment. Until now.

 _The dungeons were quiet, eerily so, and for a moment Hermione had no idea what the point of this memory was. The hall extended out to her right and left, and there was no one in sight. She recognized it immediately one very near the girls lav on the first floor, not very far from the Slytherin Common Room._

 _She didn't know what time it was, or_ when _it was, or why Pansy Parkinson had chosen this moment to show her._

 _So she waited._

 _This was perplexing. She had never seen a memory that didn't start with something obvious._

 _Just as she was shifting on her feet and extending her hand in order to touch her fingertips to the stone wall of the corridor – to see if it felt real or not, being a memory – there was a shuffle from down the other end._

 _After a few more quiet moments, she saw someone peek out from around the corner for a brief half-second before disappearing again._

 _Hissing and whispering that was just out of earshot began to make its way to her and she paid more attention to what followed._

 _Pansy Parkinson snuck out from behind the corner, looking back over her shoulder as more heads followed after her._

 _Quiet as they could be, younger children of other houses were following after Pansy in a staggered line._

" _Prefect Parkinson -" a little Hufflepuff girl started and she was hastily shushed by the others around her before starting again much more quietly. "Prefect Parkinson, where are we going?" she whispered._

 _Pansy had stopped and crouched down to the little girl's level – she was no more than a second year, if that – and beckoned her closer._

" _I'm taking you to where I think you'll be safest," she explained._

" _I thought Hogwarts was safe," she answered back._

" _It used to be," a Gryffindor boy commented. "It didn't used to be like this."_

 _Like what? What was going on?_

" _He's right," another girl whispered. "This isn't Hogwarts." The Ravenclaw had tears in her eyes, and was holding a bandaged wrist close to her body._

" _You'll have to stay there, where I'm taking you all. It's not like your House Quarters, but it had food and beds and friends to keep you company," Pansy explained. "To keep you safe. Some of the professors are mean to you -"_

" _Why though? I always do my homework," she pressed. "I never speak out in class. I'm_ good _!"_

" _I know you are," Pansy whispered, and Hermione crept closer, her brow furrowed tightly in concentration. She didn't want to miss a clue. "It's hard to explain, but it isn't your fault. It's none of your faults. But we have to go, and quietly. I'll explain better after we get up there."_

" _Where is 'there'?" the Ravenclaw who had spoken earlier asked, eyes still sparkling._

" _It's called the room of Requirement," Pansy answered. "And they'll keep you all safe there, because you're muggleborns and you're in more danger than the rest of us. Now shhh."_

 _Hermione was dumbfounded._

 _This was the girl that had been prepared to give Harry up in the Final Battle._

 _The girl who sneered and jibed and smirked at Hermione's blood status for years before this._

 _She recognized immediately, as Pansy stood again and beckoned the other children to follow her down the hall again, that she was leading them to the Room of Requirement where Neville and Ginny and Dean and so many others had already taken shelter from the cruel tyranny of Voldemort that had taken over the school. At the very moment in time, Hermione herself was probably slogging through the English countryside with Harry and Ron, Ron unable to apparate just yet. Or scrounging for food for them so they wouldn't go hungry another night. Or pouring over her texts and trying to figure out what the remaining horcruxes were and how to destroy them._

 _As she watched the Seventh Year lead the other away from her spot again, Hermione's mind was frozen._

 _It was very hard for her analytical mind to reconcile this new image of Pansy Parkinson with the one that had teased her and laughed at her and made her feel like she was the sludge at the bottom of the compost bin._

 _This…_

 _This young woman cared. This young woman had lines of worry etched into her brow and a tired, guarded slump to her shoulders. This young woman held her wand at the ready in one hand and the small hand of a muggleborn Hufflepuff in the other._


	14. Chapter 14

_Hermione followed herself down the hall, disapproving of the way the girl in front of her walked around in a large shirt hanging off one shoulder, the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra quite obvious._

" _Have you still got your knickers in a twist over my cereal bowl?" George asked as she stepped around him delicately to make a cup of tea. This must have been what he laughed about the other day, about him leaving bowls with little puddles of milk at the bottom under his side of the bed. Hermione felt her cheeks heat under the realization that George Weasley had actually seen her walking around her apartment like this before – half naked - and had been recalling perhaps this very moment when he had been looking at her in front of him, and to him those two people were the same._

" _What knickers?" This Hermione winked at George with a look that made her gasp. She would never say that! Never out loud, anyway… It was so forward. If she had said that now, she would have instantly been red as a tomato and –_

 _This Hermione continued to look at George up through the ends of her lashes. A moment stretched between the two in front of her before George made a lithe little lunge in her direction. He hooked her hastily retreating form by the waist._

" _Not so fast."_

 _In a move that made her heart quicken in her chest, George had walked her back a few steps with his body and pinned her to the other side of the galley kitchen._

 _Pinned her. Pinned._

 _How ludicrous was this._

 _This Hermione wasn't objecting in the least._

 _George had her caged there possessively, and Hermione rolled her hips against her captor's. His hands immediately snapped up to still her._

" _I asked you a question," he stated calmly. "Are you still mad?"_

" _And I said 'what kickers?'" she challenged._

 _Hermione watched her head tip back, her hair falling in messy waves to brush the counter top behind her. Her other self hissed sharply a moment later when one of George's hands disappeared into the space between them. Hermione didn't have a clear view of it but she could make a few suppositions._

" _It's a good thing you aren't lying," George announced, sounding very pleased with himself._

" _What if I was?" she challenged._

" _I'd have to teach you a lesson, probably," he laughed._

 _This Hermione burst out laughing and she was confused._

" _Don't laugh at me, wench!" George declared, leaning in and peppering her cheeks with pecks. The mood had dissolved and Hermione didn't have the faintest idea of what was going on between the two she was watching._

" _I love you, you know?" she laughed as George's body loosened up into his usual self and she reached up to kiss him deeply._

 _Hermione's eyes widened. She felt heavy and frozen in place as she watched an obviously private moment between herself and George. She felt suddenly as if she shouldn't be watching, though she had no idea where how she had gotten here._

 _It must be a dream. She must be dreaming. This was insane._

" _Thank you," she whispered tenderly._

" _Yeah, yeah," his voice muffled from her neck as he leaned down over her. "But I am going to fuck you against the counter now, just so you know," he continued, informing her other self._

 _Hermione felt her blood boil, hot and languid. Ron had never made her feel like this. Ron had never had this much… gusto. He had never been so enthralled with Hermione in such a way that he would do anything she ever asked of him. They had never had this much spark._

 _This Hermione's throaty mewl filled the space between them and in a second, her hands were at his belt buckle. And he was flush with her again, and both of Hermione's mouths hung open - for very different reasons._

 _She had never been this wanton in her life._

 _She ached and her blood raced and she felt faint as she watched him lift her bottom onto the counter and her legs curl over his hips._

 _Was this real?_

 _Had this happened?_

 _The groan that slid from George's throat a moment later sounded as if it was equal parts pain and pleasure he was experiencing and Hermione finally cracked under pressure. She slapped her hands to her face to cover her eyes and the moment they made contact –_

She woke up.

She was lying in bed - hot, too hot – and she threw off the covers.

It _was_ a dream.

Just a dream.

She lay there, hand pressed to her forehead for another few minutes, unsure of what to do with herself. The room was barely light out, the sun probably getting ready to peek out over the horizon for the day. The faded gray outlines of the room around her waved in and out of focus in the half-light.

It had been a dream that was presented to her just like a memory she might watch in the pensieve.

She had to take a break from those.

It was clearly getting to her, seeing her former self from other people's eyes.

She had _never_ had a dream feel quite so real though, and even as she rose and reached for her dressing gown, she still wasn't completely convinced it had _all_ been a dream.

She needed a cold shower, and the acknowledgement of that fact felt simultaneously discordant and harmonious in her bones.

* * *

Day to day living was sometimes hard, and sometimes easy. Grief over losing parts of herself came in waves, as expected, but those waves started to be become farther apart, and less intense.

As time passed, slow but inevitable, Hermione miraculously found herself feeling ever so slightly more at home in her own skin. People always said time heals all wounds, but she hadn't had enough life experience up until this point to see the true magic of it firsthand.

She might as well get used to this life if she was here.

Her living room was still full of crystal phials of memories and every once and while she would delve into them; usually those from people on the outskirts of her life - acquaintances.

Dennis Creevey showed her his memory of taking her portrait picture for the Daily Prophet after she had begun her climb in the Ministry. That was a Hermione she knew quite well.

Charlie Weasley had shown her a few bits and pieces of her official visit to his Dragon Sanctuary in Romania after she had started taking on creature rights and living conditions. This was also a Hermione she knew well.

Pansy Parkinson's memory was one she revisited often, curiosity at what had motivated the Slytherin to smuggle muggleborns of other houses into the Room of Requirement to keep them safe. Hermione still wasn't sure how to reconcile the two versions of the girl in her head, and she hadn't had an opportunity to speak to her personally about it, though Daphne maintained that Pansy was happy to elaborate and explain how she and the old Hermione had come to, in the very least, a mutual understanding. Hermione, however, was hesitant. It had little to do with the fact that Pansy was Pansy and more to do with the fact that she hardly met with people after viewing their gifted memories to discuss the contents. It was somewhat awkward to think about, and people generally didn't know what to say to her, at a loss. In order to avoid it all together, she never pursued further inquiry, taking the memories at face value as most of them were little memories of the old Hermione, her own Hermione, ones that reassured her she was real and alive and not nearly so foreign as she perceived at times.

Kingsley's memory had been accompanied by a note that read:

' _Hermione-_

 _I hold you in the very fondest of memories and I hope these may provide you with something you might be looking for._

 _-Kingsley'_

And weeks later she had received another short note:

' _Hermione-_

 _Should you ever find yourself wanting to come back to the Ministry and resume your efforts in politics, please do not hesitate to ask. We would gladly have you and your mind and your drive for fairness and freedom and equality back in the shake of a Hippogriff tail._

 _-Kingsley'_

His memory of been her just after the War – literally later that day, covered in rock dust and blood and sweat and tears – as she had helped tend to the wounded house elves, wrapping them in tea cloths and healing their scrapes. She had cried, sobbed even, as she had watched her former self go about caring for the small creatures without pausing to blink, so full of compassion.

The next day she had written Kingsley back, asking for a meeting.

That was how she found herself making her first trip to Diagon Alley that would last more than five minutes. The press had found out about her accident and splashed in all over the gossip news columns and magazines. Hermione did her very best to avoid any interaction with the media.

In the gentle heat of an abating September, Hermione walked with purpose through the cobblestone streets until she was nearly at the Leaky Cauldron, where the Minister had secured them a private room for lunch and a meeting. Her low pumps clacked on the stone as she held her head high and made her way past the shops that had by and large remained the same in her absence, of sorts.

As she was passing Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, a stray Decoy Detonator came running and ticking happily out of the open shop door and a ginger man was just a beat behind it.

"Oi!" he called, "come back here, you menace!"

The little invention hopped delicately between her walking ankles and George bumped into her in his mission to catch it.

"Whoops, sorry, one of them got away from a little kid and – Hermione! Hi," he finished breathlessly.

"Hello, George," she responded, both of them grabbing onto one another to keep from tangling their legs and falling. George seemed to forget about the Decoy and Hermione watched it run gleefully away behind him, multiplying as it went.

"Hi," he said again, running a hand through his hair. "What are you – what are you doing here?"

"Just on my way to see – shouldn't we stop it from getting too far…?" she motioned after it, craning her neck over his shoulder, confused.

"Ah, nah, everyone here is used to bits like him getting out and causing mischief…" he laughed.

A moment later, the commotion started and George winced. In the kerfuffle, a baby started crying, an elderly man dropped a jar of newts eyes in front of the Apothecary after being startled, and the owls down the way started hooting uncontrollably and rattling their cages.

"Oh dear…" Hermione continued looking over his shoulder, the smoke from the Decoys drifting belated over the Alley.

"On second thought, I'd better…"

George took a step back and Hermione was suddenly against aware of her personal space, flushing deeply. The last time she had seen his face was in the dream, the one where –

"Yes, probably," she responded with. "I'm going to be late anyway."

"Right, I'll just -"

"Yes, good luck -"

"See you -"

And they separated awkwardly. Hermione heaved a sigh of relief when she was on her way to the pub again, hurried steps carrying her towards uncertainty.

"Oh, Hermione -" he called after her, and she turned automatically. "Happy birthday."

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you thank you thank you for your continued support on this. My heart goes out to everyone. Thank you for all the feedback on the last short chapter, you guys managed to motivate me to keep it going and here we are with another update in a relatively short amount of time. Magic!  
**

 **Don't forget to leave me a note and let me know how it's going.**

 **Much love.**


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